


My Mind In Your Hand

by Mossycoat



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Bisexual Harry Potter, But not between Harry and Draco, Dom Draco/Sub Harry, Dom/sub, Fluff and Angst, Gay Draco Malfoy, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Praise Kink, Sexual Assault, Various Kinks, Virgin Harry Potter, because I'm gay and I said so, gnc draco
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-30
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:14:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 52,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28432248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mossycoat/pseuds/Mossycoat
Summary: Harry Potter has a serious boyfriend. Draco Malfoy is opening a centre to educate wizardkind about muggle life with Arthur Weasley. Life could not be stranger. Or, so he thinks.Thus begins the tale of Harry Potter's incurable virginity.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Harry Potter/Original Male Character(s)
Comments: 58
Kudos: 164





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> As always, fuck jk rowling.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hello all! Than you to everyone who encouraged me to write more fics, I'm glad to be back. This one deals with heavy stuff, so there are trigger warning in the end notes if you want them. As always, kudos and comments keep me writing and updating!

Thursday night is date night. They’re both working adults with busy schedules, so they have a night at least once a week where they focus on each other. That’s how adult relationships and communication works, apparently. Harry doesn’t have much practice with those, but Terran does, so he’ll take his word for it. Tonight’s date is a simple home-cooked dinner at Grimmauld Place, to try and take some of the pressure off what’s coming later. Harry breathes a tight sigh, and licks some basil and tomato sauce off the back of his wooden spoon. He reaches for the garlic, then reconsiders. Maybe not tonight. Adding some more oregano to compensate, he gives the pot a last stir and sets the hob to simmer on low.

Steam fills the kitchen. Wooden cabinets line the walls and copper pots and pans hang from hooks, gleaming in the shifting light. Over the years it’s gotten to look more and more like the kitchen in The Burrow, full of noise and activity, something always moving. But then, it’s Molly who showed him how comforting a kitchen can be, so it’s not surprising he’s modelled it after hers. One of the cabinets gives him a warning creak, alerting Harry the second before strong arms wrap around him from behind. He still jumps.

“Terran, I told you not to do that,” he grumbles, without much bite.

Terran lowers his face into Harry’s neck, placing a small kiss there. “Did I scare you?”

Harry turns around to kiss him properly, before pulling back with a glare. “No.”

“Are you sure?” he smirks, soft Welsh accent lilting over the teasing words.

Harry rolls his eyes and buries his fingers in his boyfriend’s dark blonde hair, but something snags on the back of his neck. Gently, Harry pulls it out. “A leaf?”

“Came straight from the pitch,” says Terran, stealing another quick kiss. “It’s been days since we’ve seen each other for more than five minutes.”

Harry hums. “It’ll be easier now Neville’s greenhouse is finished. I might even take a few days off.”

“I’ll believe that when I see it.”

They drink red wine with dinner, Harry drinking faster than he normally might. He’d never really appreciated the taste, he might as well be drinking vinegar half the time, but that isn’t the point of it now. His thumb rubs away the condensation on his glass as Terran complains about his new Quidditch coach who ‘just doesn’t understand the power dynamics of the team’. With the aid of Harry’s half-hearted responses, the conversation dies out quickly. Terran reaches across the table to trace over the scar on Harry’s left hand, the letters still as clear as they were ten years ago. He shivers.

Terran smiles softly. “Let’s go to bed.”

Harry grabs onto the hand resting over his own and pulls Terran from his chair and up the stairs. The room he once shared with Ron is almost as transformed as the kitchen. The two twin beds have been replaced with a fourposter, reminiscent of his Hogwarts bed but doubled in size. Instead of the riot of red and gold that reigned in their old dorm room, there’s a dark and soothing palette of midnight blue and pearlescent grey. Terran backs him into the bedpost, nose brushing down his cheek and neck until he reaches Harry’s collarbone, where he places a careful kiss.

“Are you sure, Harry?”

Harry nods and buries any further questions in kisses, fingers shaking slightly as they move over Terran’s shirt buttons. Terran’s own steady hands go to Harry’s belt, the clink of metal making him clench his fists in anticipation. Terran guides him by the shoulders to sit on the bed, and sinks to his knees.

“I’ll undress you later,” he says, grinning up at Harry. “But right now, I don’t want to wait.”

He palms Harry’s crotch where he’s already half hard, and pulls his trousers and boxers down together. Holding Harry in the circle of his fist, he begins to move up and down, until he’s finally ready. Pushing Harry gently to lie flat on his back, he takes him in his mouth without hesitation. Harry’s breath hitches, half reaching for Terran’s hair before changing his mind and twisting his hands into the bed sheets.

Terran pulls off and looks up at Harry. “I’ve changed my mind,” he says. Harry tenses. _Of course_ he didn’t live up to what Terran’s fantasy. _Of course_ Terran doesn’t want him once he actually has him. Terran’s eyes are dark when he continues, his voice hoarse as he says “I want you naked now.”

Harry sighs in relief, and pulls his own t-shirt off from where he’s lying diagonally across the rumpled sheets. Terran pulls his trousers the rest of the way off, and peels his socks off one at a time. Rubbing his hands up and down Harry’s thighs, he whispers something to himself that’s sounds a little like _so fucking hot_. His large hands move up from his thighs to pin Harry’s hips to the bed, and he sucks him in again. Harry doesn’t know why, maybe it’s just too much too fast or maybe he’s just broken, but it starts to happen again. He starts to slip away. His eyes don’t move from where they’re fastened to the ceiling, the fleur de lis patten shifting in and out of focus. A sharp sensation brings him forcefully back. How long has it been? Terran already has three fingers inside of him, lying over him on the bed with Harry’s right nipple in his mouth. Harry jumps.

“Careful, baby,” says Terran, pulling his mouth away from his chest and leaving his fingers inside. “You nearly head butted me.”

“Stop.”

“Why?” he asks. “We were finally getting somewhere.”

Harry pushes Terran off him, his fingers slipping out. “I went off again, I didn’t even know what you were doing.”

“I know,” sighs Terran. “But honestly I think it helps. You were calm, you weren’t flipping out.”

“I wasn’t calm, I wasn’t anything!” snaps Harry.

Terran runs his fingers through Harry’s hair. “Look, it’s okay, we can keep going.”

He kisses Harry again and tries to ease him back down on the bed. Harry sighs into his mouth and lets him for a moment. Where did all his bravery go? It’s just sex. People do it all the time, even teenagers do it, why shouldn’t he? He’s twenty-six, not sixteen. It’s stupid to get so worked up over it. His resolve lasts until Terran’s dick presses against his stomach, and he flinches without meaning to. Terran doesn’t react, just keeps putting more of his weight onto Harry’s body, his fingers wandering back down between his legs.

“No,” blurts out Harry. “It’s not okay, I can’t do it.”

Terran grits his teeth. “Fine, we can just do this.”

He lines their cocks up with each other, and strokes them both at once. Harry is almost completely soft now.

“No, not today. We can try again, but just not now.”

Terran scoffs and hauls himself off the bed, already stepping back into his trousers.

Harry clenches his fist in his own hair, pulling until it’s painful. “You can still stay; I just can’t do that tonight.”

He shakes his head, not even looking back at Harry. “I’m not going to wait forever, and neither is anyone else.” He doesn’t even bother buttoning up his shirt before he strides over to the door, glancing back only to say: “Get your shit together, Harry.”

-

When Harry was eighteen, Ginny told him she wanted to be friends. If anything, Harry was relieved. He was still waking up screaming most nights, Ginny still flinched at sudden movements, and neither of them were in the right place to be what the other one needed. He didn’t even consider romance again for months. He threw himself into rebuilding Hogwarts, and when term started, everyone seemed so happily paired off. Ron and Hermione were wrapped up in each other, Dean and Seamus had made their relationship public, and Neville and Hannah were making moon eyes at each other across the common room. The students who had returned to complete their education, the eighth years, had their own quarters. This meant he couldn’t spend his evenings with Ginny, either.

Ron and Hermione weren’t ignoring him, they made sure to include him to an almost pathological degree, but he didn’t want to get in their way. So, Harry spent a lot of time walking. Sometimes he traced the routes he had stalked Malfoy down in sixth year, and wondered what he was doing now. Hogwarts was almost boring without someone to fight. However, though Harry testified in order to keep him from Azkaban, the Wizengamot still felt something had to be done. Malfoy was ordered to live for three years as a Muggle, without his wand, so that he might learn the tolerance his parents never taught him. Poor bastard, thought Harry, as he hovered outside Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom. He found that his walks often concluded outside this particular room, but he was never able to go in.

On one of these walks, he walked into an empty classroom that wasn’t as empty as he’d thought, and caught Dean and Seamus in an awkward position. He stammered an apology, left them alone, and shut himself in his room. Three days later, after much introspection that consisted mostly of wanking, he realised he was bisexual.

When Harry was nineteen, he went on a date with a witch who’d gone to school at Durmstrang. Hermione had set them up, after they’d met at work. He’d hoped his notoriety wouldn’t have reached her there, but he’d been wrong. She barely said a word all through dinner, and when he asked her if something was wrong, she asked him to go back to her flat. Not feeling much interest in her beyond her dark hair and grey eyes, and not wanting to lead her on, he declined.

He went on a few dates after that, but none were promising, until he met Raphael. Raphael was a muggle, and had no idea he’d killed a dark wizard and also died himself. It was brilliant. After a few fun dates, they went back to Raph’s house. They couldn’t go back to Grimmauld, as it was too obviously magical. Things started well, until Raphael asked Harry to fuck him. Harry had a panic attack and fled the house. Thus begins the tale of Harry Potter’s incurable virginity.

-

Three days after the disaster with Terran, he goes to Sunday lunch at the Weasley’s. Aside from the three eldest Weasley brothers, Fleur and Victoire, the whole family is there. Teddy is running around the garden after the puppy Andromeda relented and bought him for his sixth birthday. Molly is conducting an orchestra of pots and spoons with her wand. Everyone else is huddled round the fire.

“Isn’t Teddy cold in the garden?” worries Hermione.

“Not with all that running around,” says Andromeda. “I wouldn’t be surprised if there’s steam coming out of his ears when he comes in for dinner.”

Harry laughs, and Hermione’s anxious gaze is directed at him instead. “How are you, Harry? We’ve not really talked since last week and you’ve been a bit… quiet.”

“It’s nothing. Just a fight with Terran.”

“Again?” asks Ginny, raising an eyebrow.

“Well, it’s the same fight it always is.”

“And what’s that?” wonders Andromeda, her curiosity piqued.

Ginny opens her mouth to explain, but he’s promptly saved the embarrassment by Arthur sinking onto the sofa beside him and declaring “We’re saved!”

“Saved?” repeats Hermione.

Arthur nods. “The Muggle Education Centre is saved.”

“I still think you need to change the name,” she says. “It’s not clear whether you’re trying to educate wizards about muggles or muggles about wizards.”

“Well, it’s probably not the one that breaks the statute of secrecy, Hermione,” says Harry.

“Besides,” adds Ron. “If you had your way it would be called P.U.S.S or something.”

Hermione rolls her eyes but doesn’t rise to the bait.

Ginny leans forward. “What do you mean ‘it’s saved’, dad? Did you find an investor?”

“Better,” he says. “I’ve found a partner, and a free building!”

Harry’s mouth opens involuntarily. “How? Who?”

Arthur smiles haplessly. “Draco Malfoy.”

The room explodes into laughter. Ron wipes a tear from his eye as he says “Good one, dad. Who is it really?”

“Draco Malfoy,” he huffs. “And he says we can use Malfoy Manor as our premises, as he and his mother haven’t lived there since the war.”

The silence is tangible, and only broken by Molly’s call of “Dinner’s ready! Get to the table.”

Everyone starts talking at once. Overlapping cries of _you can’t be serious_ and _there’s no way he would ever_. Only Harry is speechless. The racket doesn’t stop even as they descend on the table, Arthur looking a little alarmed.

“He’s been very polite in his letters,” he explains. “Been very apologetic, too. He’s also very passionate about the project, so I don’t see why he can’t be a partner.”

“Because he’s Malfoy,” whines Ron.

Hermione tilts her head. “He did spend three years living as a Muggle. Maybe it worked.”

“What about you, Harry?” asks Ron. “You hate him more than anyone.”

“Maybe when I was sixteen,” he says. “But not now.”

Ron’s eyes are wide with astonishment.

“I’m not saying I want to be best mates,” continues Harry. “But if Arthur wants to give him a chance then that’s up to him.”

“Is this about young Draco?” asks Molly.

“Draco?” parrots Ginny incredulously.

“He writes very nice letters you know, excellent penmanship. You could learn a thing or two from him, Ginerva; your handwriting looks like a spider fell in an inkwell and ran across the parchment.”

“Draco?” Ron says again, voice strangled. “How long has this been going on?”

“About a month,” explains Arthur apologetically. “I didn’t want to tell you all until we were certain.”

Draco Malfoy is opening a centre to educate wizardkind about muggle life with Arthur Weasley. Life could not be stranger. Or so he thinks, until Arthur addresses him again.

“We will need your help though, Harry. The Manor needs some restoration before we can get the Centre up and running.”

When Harry helped rebuild Hogwarts, he found a passion he didn’t know he had. Restoring magical buildings. It didn’t come to him naturally; it wasn’t like the first time he rode a broom. Nor was it like pulling teeth the way learning Occlumency had been. It was much more like Remus teaching him to cast a Patronus. It was hard, but necessary, so he pushed through until he got results. And the results were life changing. He understood Hogwarts, his first home, like he never had before. Harry found he could communicate with the castle, that magical buildings grew more and more sentient over time, and could cooperate with their own restoration. Harry was hooked. He could take something beautiful and wondrous and damaged, and he could heal it. And now, he has to heal the Manor.

If it was up to him, he would never go back to that godforsaken place. But the Weasley’s are his family now, and Arthur needs him to. Harry sighs, and hopes he can at least do it without running into Draco Malfoy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warnings:  
> Harry dissociates during sex and when he comes around his boyfriend is fingering him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're getting more backstory in this chapter, and also Harry and Draco meet again. This chapter is rated T, but warnings are in the end notes as usual. Thanks to those who left kudos on the first chapter, kudos and comments are what keep me going!

When Harry was twenty years old he danced with Oliver Wood at a charity ball. His skills weren’t much improved since fourth year, despite all the functions he’d been forced to attend. He definitely trod on Oliver’s foot more than once, but the man only laughed. They spent all night reminiscing about their years on the Gryffindor Quidditch team; their improbable wins, bitter defeats, and the trials of captaincy. Near the end of the night, they drifted onto a balcony away from the crowds. They’d both had a lot to drink, and when Oliver joked about Harry choking on the snitch in his first match, he does something unexpected. He tells Oliver about how Dumbledore hid the resurrection stone inside the snitch. How Dumbledore had always known that he would die.

The emotional confession led to gestures of comfort, which led to something else entirely. They apparated straight from the balcony to Grimmauld Place. Kissing was fine. Harry had always seemed to kiss without any panic, but when Oliver’s hand moved below his belt, he froze. They talked about it, and Oliver said that hooking up drunk was probably a bad idea anyway, but to feel free to send him an owl if he ever wanted to pick up where they left off. Harry never did.

When Harry was twenty-one, he was determined to lose his virginity. Embarrassed as he was, he decided to go to a Healer. The Healer told him sexual dysfunction was normal after trauma. Harry tried to explain that it wasn’t a physical problem, but when he tried to explain what actually happened to him when he was about to have sex, he couldn’t find the words. 

When Harry was twenty-three Ginny asked him if he was asexual. He didn’t think he was, but he did some research into it anyway. No, he decided. He definitely felt sexual attraction, he just panicked when he had to follow through.

At twenty-four he gave in and told Ron and Hermione about his problem. Hermione wondered if it was the loss of control that bothered him, after having so little control over his life growing up. That was close, but still didn’t seem quite right. Harry thought that trust might have more to do with it. He decided not to try and have sex again until he was in a serious relationship with someone he trusted.

-

When the Prophet arrives that Monday, all hell breaks loose. A picture of him and Terran at a party takes up the whole of the front page, except for the blaring headline: ‘The Chosen One Chooses Chastity’. Snappy. Alliterative. Absolutely fucking horrifying. He looks closer at the picture. It was taken at a private party- no press would have been allowed in. His heart squeezes. Terran wouldn’t go to the papers; he doesn’t need the money. Harry should trust him more than that.

He’s in the living room when Terran tumbles through the floo, his hair in disarray. “Harry, it wasn’t me! After Thursday night I needed a drink, so I went out with a mate, and I ended up telling him all about it. Someone must have heard us.”

Harry grit his teeth. “So you talked about it in public where anyone could hear? You couldn’t even go to a muggle bar to discuss my private business?”

“It’s my business too,” he says. “I should be able to talk to my friends about it.”

Harry looks away. He’s right. Terran should be able to talk to his own friends about his relationship. Who is Harry to tell him otherwise?

“Did you read the article?” Terran asks.

Harry shakes his head.

“It’s not all that bad. They don’t know any specifics, it’s mostly speculation.”

“Shouldn’t you be at training this morning?”

“I was,” he says. “The boys started on about it in the locker room. I came straight here.”

Harry sighs. “You should go back. There’s nothing to do about it now.”

Determined to take his mind off things, he sends Arthur an owl asking about the Manor’s restoration. He replies promptly, with a message saying he’s there now, and if Harry is free, he could come over straight away to draw up some plans. Harry puts on some practical muggle clothes, and apparates outside the Manor gates. One iron gate swings from its bottom two hinges, squeaking pitifully in the October wind. The greying white stone of the Manor looks like a broken tooth against the bloodless gums of the sky. Two figures walk down the long drive towards him, weeds pushing up through the gravel. One he recognises by the balding ginger head as Arthur, but the other figure is taller, dressed in black, with a suspiciously pale head of hair. Shit. Why wouldn’t he expect Malfoy to be there to make plans for his own house? Then again, Arthur didn’t mention him. Maybe this is another instance of Arthur keeping quiet until the deed was done.

Since they’re still quite far away, and the gate is already loose, he lets himself in and starts walking to meet them. Arthur waves a hand above his head. Once he’s in hearing distance, he starts calling to him.

“Hello, Harry! It looks like rain so we’d better head inside.” As gets closer, Arthur turns to Malfoy. “The roof is intact, isn’t it?”

Malfoy nods, his sharp face a bland mask of politeness. He doesn’t look at Harry. “There’s some damage to the gables in the East Wing, but other than that we should stay dry.”

“Where should I look first?” asks Harry, looking between them.

“The ballroom needs the most work,” says Malfoy.

Harry gestures for him to lead the way, and Malfoy complies. Rain starts drumming down on their backs just as they reach the front doors. They’re made of dark wood, intricately carved with magical creatures, but there’s a deep gouge running from the left handle up to the top of the door.

Harry places his hand on the wood. “These used to move.”

Malfoy raises his eyebrows as he pushes the heavy doors open. “Yes, they did.”

He doesn’t ask how Harry knows that. Probably, he doesn’t want to give Harry the opportunity to show off. And Harry finds he wants to show off a little bit. Well, maybe that’s the wrong choice of words. Part of Harry wants to impress him. He’s going to be repairing his childhood home, and he wants to prove he knows what he’s doing. Just imagining Malfoy refusing to work with him sets his teeth on edge, and an imperceptible thrill ringing in his blood. 

They make their way through damp corridors filled with upturned chairs and ripped portraits. It looks like Grimmauld place after Snape had ransacked it. Malfoy looks straight ahead, only breaking his focused stride to avoid the random detritus in his path. He’s still thin, made up of edges, but significantly taller than when Harry saw him last.

“Has no one been here since the war?” Harry asks.

“No one but the Aurors and the Curse Breakers,” answers Malfoy. “Nothing here is dangerous anymore, except for some unstable walls, but it’s still not what it used to be. Even if it was, it would need extensive renovation to be used for our purposes.”

They arrive outside the ballroom, opened into by a matching set of wooden doors. Instead of trees and animals, there are people, slumped at the very bottom of the doors. Sleeping- or dead. However, this time there is no visible damage. Seemingly unaffected by the state of the doors, Malfoy heads inside.

Harry hisses through his teeth. The floor to ceiling windows that line one wall have all been blown out by a powerful blast. The mirrors that clad the opposite wall are completely shattered. Nearly everything is covered in a sticky black powder, like soot. He nearly takes out his wand to do a quick scan, but then remembers what Malfoy had said about it being cleared. Not wanting to waste time, he runs a finger over the wall, and sniffs the black residue that coats his finger. Mushrooms. The strange and distinctive smell of the infamous _Igneus Mori_. Often referred to as the Volcano Curse.

Arthur shakes his head. “I would ask what happened here, but I don’t think that would be helpful or productive. Let’s just see what we can do about it.”

“I imagine cleaning up this soot will be the first thing, but that shouldn’t take too long,” says Malfoy.

“Actually,” he says. “This soot is a bigger problem than you might think. If it had been removed right away it wouldn’t matter, but it’s corrosive, and it eats away at the stone over time. The walls, the ceilings, even the marble floors. They’re all going to need work.”

“Excuse me for not attending to it sooner, Potter, but seeing as I was exiled to live as a muggle, it was rather out of my hands.”

Harry bristles. “I wasn’t blaming you, Malfoy. I was trying to tell you this will take a long time.”

“Excellent. And how long might I expect the pleasure of your company? I’m always looking for someone to state the bloody obvious.”

As Harry draws breath to defend himself, Arthur clears his throat.

Harry sighs. “Why don’t you show the rest of the place, and then I can tell you?”

“Yes,” says Arthur. “There’s a room we want to turn into a cinema, and we need your opinion.”

Malfoy doesn’t voice his agreement, but he also doesn’t object to the use of ‘we’. They make an unlikely pair of tour guides. As they go from room to room Malfoy recounts it’s original use, and whatever damage has been done to it, while Arthur gives his ideas for what it could be used for. Harry then explains how the necessary changes could be made. Malfoy is quiet, not speaking more than he has to, except the occasional quiet jibe. Although, they are never directed at Arthur. He seems to be on his best behaviour with him, and Harry gets the sense that he is holding back his harsher comments about Harry on his account.

Eventually, Arthur looks at his watch. “I’m afraid I’m expected back, boys. Can I leave you to look at the last two rooms?”

Harry is just about to suggest that they continue another day when Arthur can join them, suspecting that the buffer of Arthur is the only thing stopping them from devolving into a shouting match, when Malfoy speaks.

“Of course, there are some things I need to discuss with Potter, anyway.”

Arthur nods distractedly, and with a soft ‘good afternoon, boys’, is gone.

They are upstairs, in what used to be a private area of the house, but was no longer used by the family by the time Malfoy was born. Or so he says, giving a dispassionate monologue about the history of the rooms. Malfoy opens a door, and gestures for Harry to go in before him. He frowns, suspicious of the polite behaviour, but goes in anyway. Inside is a nursery covered in dust. The ceiling is faded, but a painted canopy can still be made out. Suddenly, a whimpering sound comes from the old crib. Harry rushes over, and sees a baby. Translucent, wearing layers of frills and a lacy bonnet. A ghost.

“I…didn’t know babies could become ghosts.”

“It’s not common, but it happens,” shrugs Malfoy.

The baby threatens to cry, and Malfoy joins him in looking over the crib. The soft hitching breath turns into a happy babble at the sight of his face.

“She likes you,” he says.

“She should; I used to come in here often as a child. I’m an only child, so I’d pretend she was my sister. I gave her a name, I even read to her from my books.”

Harry looks up at him, surprised that he would tell him this. “What did you call her?”

“Daphne. Though I later discovered her real name was Hippolyta, when I looked into some family history.” Malfoy meets his eyes straight on for the first time that day. “I don’t want anything done to this room.”

Harry nods.

They move to the next room. A fourposter bed not unlike Harry’s own sits at the centre of the room, though everything is so smothered in dust that any colours are drowned out by grey. Malfoy’s nose wrinkles, and he casts a quick cleaning charm, but it doesn’t completely remove the grime.

“So, Potter. I hear you’re a virgin.”

Harry chokes on his own spit. Fuck. Why did he not think Draco would see the _Prophet_? He contacted Arthur because he knew he never read it, and Molly only really bothered with _Witch Weekly_. Of course, he wasn’t expecting to see Malfoy, so he hadn’t considered it. He wanted to take his mind off it, and it had clearly been effective, because he hadn’t remotely seen this coming. And why did he choose to wait until now to bring it up, if he had this arrow in his quiver? Clearly, he was right in thinking that Arthur’s presence shielded him from most of his animosity.

He had to get out of there. “I’m leaving.”

“Why? Is the bed making you uncomfortable?”

Harry’s eyes flick back to large bed and he can’t help blushing. “Is there anything else I need to look at or are you just fucking with me now?”

“I suppose that confirms it, then.” Malfoy’s grin is sly. “Never play poker, Potter, or you’ll lose the shirt off your back.”

“I’m leaving,” he repeats.

“You keep saying that, and yet you’re not actually moving.” Harry turns to go, and actually takes a few steps towards the door, when Malfoy speaks again. “Wait. There really was something I wanted to talk to you about. What I actually wanted to do was apologise.”

“Apologise?”

Malfoy’s face sobers. He looks down at his fidgeting hands, long fingers twisting through each other like the muggle children’s game. _Here’s the church, here’s the steeple._ Now that he’s really looking at him, he can see the beginnings of fine wrinkles around his eyes, the tight set of his mouth.

“Yes, I wanted to apologise for my actions. I’m sure you know everything I’m referring to, so please don’t waste both of our time by asking me to recite such a very long list.”

“Then why have you been so…” he trails off, making a vague gesture with his hand.

“I may have changed my ways, but it would take a miracle to stop me from arguing with you.”

Maybe, despite his world turning upside down, it did have one constant. Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy would never get along.

“Six months,” he says.

“What?” asks Malfoy, looking confused.

“The repairs, the building work. It’ll take at least six months. You wanted to know, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” he says, looking almost through Harry. “I did want to know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warnings:  
> Implied child death in the form of a ghost baby.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one gets juicy. Additional warnings in the end notes- and let me know what you think so far!

On Thursday, Terran breaks up with him. It’s date night again, and Terran is talking, but Harry can’t really hear him. He just catches snatches of platitudes and excuses. They’re going on a break, or at least that’s what he says. Reading between the lines, Terran doesn’t want to be with him if sex is off the table. Harry knows that its over.

He doesn’t want to think. He also doesn’t want to get pissed and end up plastered over the front page of the _Prophet_ for the second time that week, so he has to find another way to distract himself. Maybe he could take out his grief and frustration on the grimy walls of the ballroom? Harry had made a start on them two days before, but there is still plenty to do. It’s late, but he’s been given access, and no one lives there anymore.

Apparating directly into the ballroom, he sends balls of warm orange light bobbing along the ceiling. It doesn’t do much to light the room, but Harry doesn’t want to catch his reflection in the wall of broken mirrors. He must look a mess. At one point, without him realising, he had started to cry. His hair wilder even than normal, from his anxious tugging. Clothes still dishevelled from the last-ditch attempt at a kiss when Terran first told him he needed time apart.

Only a third of the soot is cleared from the wall studded with windows, and night air floods into the room, making Harry shiver. He rolls up his sleeves, and casts with a brutality that surprises even himself. Before long he is sweating, and at first he doesn’t notice the figure watching him from the doorway.

Draco Malfoy looks like he wants to lean casually against the doorjamb, but that would mean getting his clothes stained with curse residue, so he has to make do with an insolent expression. This time he’s dressed in muggle clothes, instead of the black robes Harry saw him in before. They would look completely normal, if Queen Victoria was still on the throne. As it is, the silk waistcoat, the pressed trousers, and the embroidered cuffs of his shirt make him look like a fairy tale prince. Or an eccentric. Possibly both.

“I thought you didn’t live here anymore,” says Harry.

“I don’t,” says Malfoy, raising his eyebrows in what Harry is coming to recognise as his signature move. He doesn’t think he did that in school, but then he was always sneering. “But as the master of the house, I still get ward alerts.”

Now he’s been acknowledged, Malfoy moves further into the room.

“There’s nothing to worry about. I just wanted to get some work done.”

Malfoy cocks his head. “Really? From where I was standing, you looked about ready to knock down the wall.”

Harry clenches his fists, and wills his eyes dry. Malfoy gets closer, close enough to see the state he’s in.

“What happened?” he asks, his tone stuck halfway between insult and concern.

Merlin help him, but he’s going to say it. “Terran broke up with me.”

“Ah.” Malfoy looks thrown off balance, like he didn’t expect Harry to actually tell him. “Was it about the whole…”

“Sex thing?” snaps Harry. “Yeah. He said it wasn’t, but it was.”

Malfoy hums, watching him carefully, and Harry’s muscles clench even tighter than they were before. What was he doing talking to Malfoy, of all people? He hadn’t even told Ron and Hermione and here he was spilling his guts to a man who was more likely to step in them than to help put him back together.

“You know, I could help you,” he says.

“What?” blurts Harry.

Malfoy doesn’t look wrong-footed now. He looks confident, smirk pinned in place, the sharp silhouette of his body outlined in the orange lamplight. “What is it about sex? Do you not want it, or are you scared of it?”

“I’m not scared!” snaps Harry. “I mean, that’s not it exactly.”

Malfoy just keeps looking at him, compelling him to continue. In the dim ballroom, the breeze cooling his hot skin, it doesn’t feel real enough to have consequences.

“I panic. It’s too much pressure, and I panic. People expect all these things from me and I don’t how to live up to this image of me in their heads. I don’t know if I’m doing it right, I don’t know what they want me to do to them- and I don’t know what they’re going to do.”

Malfoy nods, still not speaking, and all his deficiencies just keeps spilling out of him.

“And sometimes… I just go somewhere else. I leave my body for a bit and I don’t know what’s happening around me. It’s hard to let my guard down, after everything, but I don’t want to be making all the decisions either,” he adds.

Malfoy swallows. “What I’m getting from this, is that you need someone you trust not to hurt you when you’re vulnerable, but not someone you’re worried about impressing.”

Harry shrugs, and nods at the same time. “That would be easier, but it doesn’t help me now. Obviously, I care what Terran thinks.”

“If the problem is just sex, then couldn’t you get some experience with someone else, and then try and work things out with your ex-boyfriend?”

“But where would I find someone who I both trust and don’t care about?” he wonders. “And we don’t even know if it would work.”

Malfoy is impossibly close, close enough that he has to look down slightly when he speaks. “Potter, do you trust me?”

Harry’s heart beats so fast his chest hurts. Does he trust Malfoy? A few days ago, he might have said no. Yes, he’d spoken up for him at the trials. Yes, he’d saved his life and vice versa. But, trust him? No. After that tour the other day, when Malfoy told him about being a lonely child, reading stories to a ghost he pretended was his sister. When Malfoy apologised, in his stilted, formal way. When he said he would always argue with him, instead of lying and pretending there are only calm waters between them. Harry can trust that person to be exactly who they are, and he doesn’t think that person wants to hurt him anymore.

“Yes,” whispers Harry.

“I could help you,” he repeats, voice lower than before. “We could work through it together, and you wouldn’t have to worry about ruining our relationship, because we don’t have one.”

“What’s in it for you?”

Malfoy laughs. “Don’t be a moron, Potter. I get to pop the Chosen Cherry, and have fun doing it.”

“No.” Harry shakes his head. “It’s too complicated. You’re working with Arthur, so we’ll see each other all the time. It’ll be awkward. And I’ve only just broken up with Terran, I should take some time to get my head on straight, not rush into anything”

“Whatever happened to Gryffindors barrelling headfirst into everything? I’m beginning to miss it.” He sighs. “It’s hardly a rush, Potter; you’re twenty-six.”

Harry bristles. “No. Thank you for listening, and thank you for holding out on making fun of me for as long as you did, but we’re not doing this.”

He disapparates back to Grimmauld Place without saying goodbye.

-

When Harry was twenty-five, he met Terran Jones. It was at Ginny’s birthday party, and she’d invited all her teammates on the Wasps. His mother had a degenerative illness, so he had asked to be home-schooled, rather than leave her for months at a time. Terran wouldn’t tell him that until months later, however. At the time, Harry only knew that he didn’t recognise him from Hogwarts.

He asked Ginny about him, and subtle as ever, she yelled across the room to ask Terran if he liked blokes. Terran had only laughed, walked over to where they were standing, and told Ginny that if she didn’t know he was gay before then she was certainly about to. Then he kissed him. Square on the lips. Not long, but firm, with his hand on Harry’s jaw. A peck on the lips, but not the kind you’d give your aunt. Unless you were fucked up, of course. Harry was stunned, his face was red, and his stream-of-consciousness was babbling.

For their first date they went flying. Obviously, Terran was a professional, but he was also a beater. They played a seekers match to even the playing field, and Harry won two out of three matches. He never admitted it to Terran, but he let him win the third, because he was starting to look embarrassed. The sun lit up his hair, and his grin lit up his face when he caught the snitch, and so it was worth it to lie just a little bit. When they were tired and ready to go home, Terran kissed him again. Properly, this time. Harry steeled himself, and resolved to explain about his problem before it went any further, and hoped he would understand. Before he could, Terran pulled back, and asked if they could take things slow. He’d had a string of high-profile flings followed by a one-sided attachment, and he wanted to settle down and take his time. He liked Harry, and he didn’t want to ruin it. Harry had rarely been that relieved since the end of the war.

His relationship was brilliant, and gentle, and fun, and everything he needed. Until. Until Terran’s mother died of the illness that had been slowly killing her, and he fell apart. He came to Harry late at night, cried into his shoulders, started kissing him through the tears and just didn’t stop. He got more desperate, and Harry got tenser, until he pushed him away. Harry said that they shouldn’t sleep together for the first time when Terran was in that state, and it was true- but it wasn’t the whole truth.

Weeks later, weeks of late-night conversations and tea in the kitchen, of slowly-returning smiles and soft touches, Harry was in love. And he wanted to tell him everything.

-

Standing in the kitchen of Grimmauld Place where they’d drunk cups of tea in the dark, Harry knows that he can’t stop loving Terran, not any time soon. But he also can’t be with him unless he can give him everything he needs. He’s barely been gone for five minutes, ignoring the concerned creaks of the cabinets, when he disapparates again.

Malfoy is still there, looking out the empty window into the night. Harry marches towards him, barely slowing down, almost colliding with him before Malfoy turns around. He doesn’t have time to form a question, or even an expression, before Harry is kissing him. It’s short, but fierce, with a flash of pain as Malfoy’s tooth cuts into his bottom lip.

Harry reminds himself to pull back, and breaths heavily. “Is this what you want?” He is wound so tightly he isn’t sure if his mouth wants to produce kisses or curses. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

Malfoy’s smile is wicked. “You have no fucking clue, Potter.”

He reels Harry back in. Minutes are lost in the press of lips and tongues and hands. This time, it is Malfoy who pulls back.

“I can’t believe I’m saying this, but we need to stop.”

Harry is dazed. “This was your idea!”

“I don’t mean stop entirely,” he says, rolling his eyes. “But if you don’t want this to end up like every other misbegotten fumble you’ve had we need to do this right.”

He holds out his hand and, tentatively, Harry takes it. He side-alongs them to a bedroom that looks like it’s seen more recent use that the Edwardian era, and pulls Harry to sit with him on the bed.

Malfoy casts a quiet _lumos_ and says “I know I made it sound simple before, but after you left, I was thinking about what you told me about going away sometimes. How will I know if it happens?”

“Oh,” says Harry. He’s surprised at Malfoy’s… thoughtfulness, he supposes. Harry’s stomach lurches as he remembers Terran’s words. _We were finally getting somewhere._ It almost sounds like Malfoy actually cares if he’s there or not. “Well, I just stop responding. I don’t move, or speak, or kiss back.”

“That should be easy enough to notice. Sex is a conversation, only wanking is a monologue. Although,” he says, looking Harry up and down. “I’m not opposed to an argument.”

Harry huffs. Malfoy thinks he far cleverer than he is, but right then he doesn’t care. He just wants to touch him. He closes the distance between them. “Is that everything? Because I think I want to try and suck your dick.”

Malfoy’s eyes widen, and for the first time tonight he seems to be speechless. Harry comes to stand in front of where Malfoy’s sitting, and kneels. Grey eyes follow him down, and from Harry’s new position, he can see he is affected. When he undoes his trousers- buttons, instead of a muggle zip- his hands are steady. This is one of things Terran has been angling for for a while. When he looks up at Malfoy, guilt sours his mouth. It’s Malfoy’s hand gripping the back of his neck, and Malfoy he cursed in a bathroom. It’s Malfoy’s wiry thigh he’s resting his hand on, and Malfoy who broke his nose. He wants to get under his skin again, and for a minute he hadn’t thought about Terran at all.

He pulls out Malfoy’s dick. It’s normal. It’s a penis. A relatively nice one, as they go, but he doesn’t feel the usual fear he associates with them. He breaths a sigh of relief, and the air must ghost over it because suddenly Malfoy’s hand is moving up to clutch at his hair. Something sparks at the base of Harry’s spine. He moves one hand to hold the base of Malfoy’s cock, and the other to press Malfoy’s fingers harder against his skull. A wordless request. He must understand, because his grip grows tighter.

Harry’s never gotten this far before, but he’s determined not to let that stop him this time. Thinking, if he does it fast enough, he can push past any worry not drowned out by arousal, he swallows as much as he can. It feels strange, and hot, and overwhelming in a way he’s never felt before. Malfoy hisses. Harry almost grins, before he remembers to mind his teeth. He wants to make it feel good. Not because he’s worried Malfoy will reject him. He wants to make it feel good because when they were eleven, he got on a broom for the first time and flew circles around Malfoy, who had been flying almost before he could walk. He may be inexperienced, but there’s no accounting for his competitive streak when it comes to Malfoy.

The combined thrill of physicality and the ruthless need to reduce Malfoy to a puddle pushes all anxiety from his head, as he sucks and licks. He doesn’t realise he’s hard until he presses closer to take Malfoy further down and his dick presses against his leg. He gasps at the sensation, and the breath causes Malfoy to groan in a feedback loop of pleasure. Malfoy’s thighs are trembling where Harry smooths his hand up and down the fine fabric. He looks up. The man who had looked so put together earlier, like a painting, has come completely undone. His hair flops down over his forehead where his neck is bent to stare at Harry.

Malfoy shakes his head slightly. “Look at you.”

But Harry is looking at him. He pulls back, not all the way off, just enough to hold the head in his mouth. Then he sucks hard. Malfoy curses and pulls him the rest of the way off, before covering his own dick with his fist. Clenching his jaw and tipping his head back, Malfoy comes into his hand.

Malfoy shudders a breath. “Thought swallowing was a bit much for a first time.”

Harry doesn’t even nod, he’s still transfixed by the sight.

“Wait,” Malfoy pales. “Are you-”

“I’m fine,” he says, looking up at him. Malfoy was about to come, and he was still thinking about Harry. Again, that incongruent word pops into his head. _Thoughtful._ “I’m more than fine.” he says.

He surges upwards and climbs onto Malfoy’s lap, the need to finish momentarily eclipsed by the need to kiss him. It conveniently puts him in reach of Malfoy’s hands, and that hasn’t gone without notice. One wraps around to the small of his back, pushing them closer together. The other moves to his flies. Dozens of times, this has been the moment Harry backs away, when someone tries to touch him. Right now, he so busy sucking a bruise into Malfoy’s neck that he forgets he’s supposed to panic.

It won’t take much. The energy that’s been coiling inside him ever since Malfoy asked if he trusted him is so tightly wound that anything could set it off. He wraps his hand around him and strokes him fast. He buries his head into Malfoy’s shoulder, eyes squeezed shut. There’s no lube, and it’s dry, but the head of his dick is rubbing against the silk of that stupid fancy waistcoat, and then he’s coming all over it.

A sound he didn’t know he could make slips past the lip he’s biting. He freezes, and then he melts. Malfoy rubs his palm up and down his back, and Harry wishes he could feel him on his skin. It’s only then he realises they’re both still dressed.

“Fuck,” he says. “I ruined your waistcoat.

Malfoy laughs and pulls him into a filthy kiss. “You can ruin as many as you like, so long as we can do that again.”

“Or we could just take our clothes off next time.”

His eyes somehow become darker and softer at the same time. “Speaking of, let’s avoid doing it here. As exciting as exhibitionism can be, Arthur Weasley also has access to the manor, and I don’t think either of us want to include him.”

Harry backs up and starts to stand, meaning to collapse onto the bed next to Malfoy, but Malfoy’s expression changes slightly. Becomes cooler, back to his usual calm. He stands up, casts a cleaning charm over them both, and rearranges his clothing. Harry sits down, feeling heavy all of a sudden.

All at once, he realises what he’s just done, and who he’s done it with. He stops moving, he almost stops breathing.

Harry’s been told many times that he fidgets. He doesn’t notice it himself, but he used to get in trouble for it even before Hogwarts. Teachers would snatch away whatever he was playing with in his hands, and say if he was fidgeting then he wasn’t paying attention. So, then he would bite his nails. Tug at his hair. Tap his foot. Nothing can stop him moving, except this. It paralyses his mind, and then his body follows after.

He feels a hand on his cheek, and distantly recognises that someone is talking.

“Potter? Potter? You didn’t tell me what to do if this happened. Oh shit, Harry?”

He comes back. Malfoy is crouched in front of him, nostrils flared and palms cupping Harry’s face. He blinks, looking around him.

Malfoy lets out a deep sigh. “It happened, didn’t it?”

He nods, but still isn’t ready to speak.

“Do you know what caused it?”

Harry shrugs.

Malfoy starts to pace. “I was just getting up to go and- ah. I have a theory.”

He comes back over to Harry and gently guides down onto the bed, propped against the headboard, then lies down next to him. He rubs Harry’s arm as if he might be cold, conjures a glass and casts _aguamente_.

“Drink this,” he says, and watches while Harry complies. “You know, when I was living as a muggle, I was stumbling from bar to bar trying to find something that would make me forget myself. Booze, sex, anything. I ended up in a leather bar, and I met someone there. I tried to proposition them, but they just got me a glass of water and sat with me until they knew I wasn’t going to throw up. I couldn’t remember how to find my way back to my shitty flat without magic. I didn’t know the city and everything looked the same to me. So, they took me home and let me sleep on their sofa.”

Harry doesn’t comment, just watches Malfoy trace through his memories, feeling his voice vibrate where he’s holding Harry to him.

“I went back to that leather bar, hoping to find them again, to say thank you when I wasn’t hungover and hating myself. That’s when I started to learn more about the kink scene. Anyway, to get to the point, sometimes after or even during a scene, you can drop. You’re all high one minute and then it feels like the world is ending.”

“Has it happened to you?” he asks.

Malfoy looks at him in surprise, and Harry realises it’s the first time he’s spoken again. “No, but it happened to Simi. They’re the one who let me sleep on their sofa. We became friends, and when I said I wanted to try some things for myself, they told me about it. They taught me how important aftercare is; you have to come down slowly, look after each other, and remember it can happen to either one of you.”

“But this wasn’t like that, it was just normal sex,” he says.

Malfoy shakes his head. “That’s not the point, Potter. It’s not normal for you. From what I’ve gathered, it’s a pretty massive fucking deal for you.”

Those strange, considerate gestures that had made his throat constrict before, now make his blood run cold. He was doing this with Malfoy because they didn’t care what each other thought- except in the name of competition. They were rivals, and that implies a certain level of equality. He doesn’t want anyone to feel responsible for him, let alone Malfoy. He really doesn’t.

“I know I’m not normal, that doesn’t mean you have to baby me.”

“No,” he huffs. “You’re not normal, you’re the saviour of the fucking world, and I-”

Harry wrenches himself from Malfoy’s grip and apparates home. He wants to fall apart in peace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warnings:  
> Dissociation


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've edited the layout since I realised I'd messed up how the notes worked, so hopefully the warnings should be in the right places now. I'd love to hear from you, this is the most explicit thing I've ever written so some feedback would be especially appreciated!

Lying in bed, Harry stares up at the ceiling. He has just had sex for the first time. With Draco Malfoy. And it was _good_. How fucked up is it that he can have sex with a man he’s wanted to murder on a dozen different occasions, but not with his loving boyfriend? Ex-boyfriend, now. Thinking of being on his knees, almost choking but still so turned on, he feels a shiver run through him. That part was almost better than coming himself, and isn’t that a revelation?

Shame that Malfoy had to ruin it by being a prick, but then that’s why it worked in the first place. The tension between them can be put to other uses. He’s not going to do it again, though. Harry’s proven that he can do it, there’s no need to go back for more. Still, there’s a thread pulling at the back of Harry’s head, reminding him that Malfoy hadn’t been a prick the whole time. An even more traitorous part of his brain whispers that Malfoy had been kinder to him than Terran, more patient. That doesn’t change anything, though. He loves Terran, and running back to Malfoy isn’t going to get his real relationship back on track. Harry drifts off to sleep remembering the feel of Malfoy’s fingers running through his hair.

The next day, he gets back to work, studiously avoiding the ballroom. Technically, he had said he would work on the rooms one at a time, but he can’t bear to be back there after last night. He’d tried, peering in through the doors with the carved dancers, but he could only see that first kiss.

Malfoy finds him in the afternoon, repairing wooden beams in the attic. These weren’t damaged during the war, just neglected, but they were important enough structurally that he doesn’t want to leave them too long. He’s standing on a folding ladder, when a voice startles him.

“I know people put you on a pedestal, but I didn’t expect you to take it so literally.”

Harry wobbles, nearly falling, before he grips the top of the ladder and regains his balance. He cranes his head round to glare at Malfoy. “Give me some warning next time. I don’t want to get skinned alive falling onto a cursed rocking horse, or whatever else you’ve got up here.”

Malfoy smirks. “But then I wouldn’t get to see you flail about like a flobberworm on ice.”

“What do you want?” he grunts, climbing down from the ladder.

“I was surprised you came back, after leaving in such a strop last night. I thought you might be setting fire to the bed, you know, to eliminate the evidence.”

He doubts that’s the real reason, as they’re in the attic, and not that dusty bedroom. Still, there’s plenty of dust here to remind him of it. “Whatever you say,” he sighs.

Malfoy just hums noncommittally, and looks around the room. Rectangles of sunshine slice through the attic, creating stripes of gloom and light. Boxes and old furniture are crammed onto every available surface, except for the path Harry has cleared to walk through. Malfoy picks up something that looks like it used to be a potted plant, before it died and fossilised up there, and tilts his head. Harry watches him. He’s dressed similarly to last night; no formal robes, but still over-dressed for the grime and clutter surrounding him. He puts the pot back down, and moves into a shaft of light.

“You know,” says Malfoy. “It’s debatable whether or not you’re still a virgin, given that we never actually shagged.”

“Is that an offer, or just an observation?”

The pink tip of a tongue pokes out ever so slightly to wet his lips. “An invitation. Come to my house tonight, and we can deflower you more…thoroughly.”

“Deflower? Just how posh are you?”

Malfoy laughs, light and devastating. “I’ll owl you my address.”

“Who says I’ll go?” he grumbles, barely audible.

Turning to leave, Malfoy follows the path through the clutter, and throws a knowing smile over his shoulder. “I’ll see you tonight.”

-

Most Friday nights Harry has dinner with Ron and Hermione. They take it in turns to go to each other’s houses, and this time it’s their turn. Thankfully, Ron is cooking. Hermione never burns anything, but she’s never gotten the hang of balancing flavours, so everything is either too bland or else it scours your tastebuds.

Tonight, Ron’s made homemade burgers on poppyseed buns. Harry can barely finish chewing long enough to answer Hermione’s barrage of enquiries about Arthur and Malfoy.

“They really get along? He doesn’t make any snide remarks?” she asks.

Harry swallows hastily. “Not to Arthur.”

Ron grunts. “So, he’s still a dick to you then. You think he’d be grateful. I mean- you save his life, keep him out of Azkaban, and now you’re fixing his house.”

 _And sucking his dick_ , thinks Harry.

“What more can he want?” wonders Ron, around a mouthful of burger.

 _To fuck me, apparently._ Harry doesn’t voice his thoughts aloud. Instead, he says: “It’s not that bad. Fighting each other’s just habit, at this point.”

Hermione narrows her eyes shrewdly. “That’s surprisingly introspective of you, Harry. What brought that on?”

“We talked,” shrugs Harry.

“You talked,” she repeats, voice sceptic.

“He apologised for…everything, but he hasn’t had a complete personality change. He’s still Malfoy.”

He doesn’t mention the moments where Malfoy didn’t seem like the same person at all, or how they came to happen. He’s pretty sure Ron would have a heart attack, and Hermione’s voice would reach new levels of panicked squeakiness.

He’s decided not to tell them about the breakup with Terran just yet. If everything goes to plan, then they won’t be broken up long enough to worry them about it. Ergo, he can’t tell them about Malfoy, or they’ll think he’s been cheating. Surprisingly, he finds that he wants to tell them. He needs all that weirdness to spill out onto the table so Hermione can dissect it, force it to make sense.

“You know,” starts Hermione, sounding cautious. “He apologised to me as well.”

“What?” chokes Ron, inhaling crumbs.

Hermione thumps him on the back. “When his three years in the muggle world were over. He sent me an owl.”

“How did I not know this?” splutters Ron. “I should know this!”

“I thought it might upset you,” she explains. “Besides, I thought it would upset Harry even more, and I didn’t want to ask you to keep a secret from him.”

“Did you think I would fly off the handle just because Malfoy wrote you a letter?” asks Ron, incredulous.

Hermione crosses her arms. “Like you are now, you mean?”

They continue in this vein for a while, the argument devolving into some nonsensical debate about carpets, of all things. Harry stops paying attention, and is quietly finishing his burger, when he sees an owl tapping at the window.

“Speaking of owls,” he says. “There’s one for you now.”

Ron goes to the window, looking relieved at the interruption. A large and elegant owl flutters her wings and lands on the table. She turns to face Harry, and gracefully holds out her leg.

“For me?” he murmurs. “Thanks.”

“Isn’t that-” begins Hermione, before cutting herself off.

The outside is addressed to ‘Potter’, and he immediately realises who it’s from. Malfoy did say he would send him his address, even though Harry had never said if he’d come. He blushes, and flicks the note open just enough to confirm its contents, before stuffing it in his pocket.

“I need to, um. I’m sorry, but I’m, er, going to have to go a bit early today.”

Ron claps him on the shoulder on his way back to the table. “Everything okay, mate?”

“Yeah, yeah,” he says, breathlessly. “Everything’s great. Brilliant. Just need to get an early night.”

When Malfoy opens the door, Harry is boiling over with annoyance and anticipation.

“You dick,” he says emphatically.

Malfoy beckons ostentatiously, welcoming him into his home. It’s too large to be a cottage, but only just, and too picturesque to be called a house. It’s nowhere near as grand as the Manor, but the wisteria draping over the doorway and the herbs he brushed past on his way up the path give the impression of pastels and sweetness. Everything Malfoy is not. Because he is a dick.

Malfoy doesn’t ask him to elaborate as he leads Harry into the hallway, but he does anyway. “I wasn’t alone when I read your note.”

“Enjoy it, did you?”

Harry blushes again just thinking about what he’d read, Ron and Hermione just feet away.

_I live at number three Ferney Grove, Hertfordshire. I wanted to make you scream at Hogwarts too, though then I had very different methods in mind. Would you like to try some new ones? Currently I’m planning on licking your hole until you cry, but I’ll see where the mood takes me._

“You can’t just say that stuff in a letter. What if someone saw it?”

Malfoy rolls his eyes and takes Harry’s coat almost without him noticing, the movement is so smooth. “Roberta would never allow it. She’s very serious about privacy, you know.”

Malfoy starts steering him further into the house.

“Is Roberta your owl? She’s cute.”

“Don’t let her hear you say that,” he chuckles. “She’d probably bite you.”

They arrive in a warm kitchen with a small round table, just big enough for two chairs. Malfoy bends over to open a cupboard, and catches Harry staring at his arse when he looks back over his shoulder. Thankfully, he declines to mention it.

“Whisky or wine, Potter?”

“Whisky,” he says, surprised at the show of hospitality. After that letter he’d expected they’d go straight to the bedroom.

Malfoy nods and grabs two stout little glasses. He snags a bottle and sits down, gesturing to the chair opposite. Harry sits.

Malfoy pours them both a generous portion, the amber liquid deep and stormy in the bottom of the glass. “If we don’t want a repeat of last time, we have to do things properly- talk about our boundaries.”

“I thought we did talk,” he says, taking a sip. It burns, as always, but after the burn is the distinctive honey-sweetness.

“Not as much as I meant to.” He raises both eyebrows. “You distracted me.”

Harry grins. “It can’t have been that important, then.”

“You’re not getting away with it this time, Potter. The whole point of this is so you can have sex without panicking, so you need to tell me what makes you panic.”

He shifts uncomfortably in his seat. “It’s not that simple. There were things you did yesterday that would normally set me off, but it didn’t that time. And then, sometimes I think I’m fine with something and suddenly I can’t do it.”

“I’ll just have to keep checking in, then.” Malfoy drinks deeply, then sighs in satisfaction. “What if it does happen again? What should I do?”

The idea of Malfoy coddling him again, like he did yesterday, makes him tense up. If it was Terran, he’d want to be held and reassured. But coming from Malfoy, it would be out of a sense of obligation, not affection. Still, he had seemed concerned, yesterday.

“You don’t have to do anything. I’ll be fine, you don’t need to- look after me, or anything. Normally I’d say you could just leave, but this is your house, so.”

“Dear lord, Potter,” drawls Malfoy. “I know you have a hero complex but this is just inexplicably idiotic. You have to rush in and save everyone but Merlin forbid _you_ have a moment of weakness.”

“Shut up,” he snaps. He’s unwilling to explain that he just doesn’t want to be a burden; no doubt Malfoy would find a way to ridicule that too.

“No, Potter. I know you think I’m a heartless bastard, but even I wouldn’t just leave you in that state.”

“Why?” he asks. “Everyone else does.”

Malfoy’s face falls. He opens his mouth, and closes it again.

“It’s really not a big deal- it’s not like I’m physically hurt. I usually snap out of it after a while, anyway.”

A complex set of emotions drift across Malfoy’s face, one after the other, before settling into his usual mask of cool detachment. “Be that as it may, I treat my sexual partners with at least basic respect.”

“Oh, because you’ve been so respectful to me, calling me an idiot every five seconds.”

He smiles against the rim of his glass. “That’s just the truth, Potter. Now, if you’ll allow me, I’d like to finish the job your genetics started and render you completely senseless.”

Harry rolls his eyes, and tries not show how eager he is. “What about you? You said _our_ boundaries. Is there anything I shouldn’t do?”

Malfoy’s mouth forms a curve, too thoughtful to be called a smile. “I’m not a fan of sadomasochism, so if you want to fight, I’d prefer to finish fucking first.”

“About that,” says Harry, looking into to the last dregs of his whisky to avoid Malfoy’s eyes. “Which, um. Which way do you want to- you know?”

“Eloquent as ever,” snorts Malfoy. “Before yesterday, when you sucked my dick _so_ enthusiastically, I wouldn’t have thought Saint Potter would ever deign to get fucked by the likes of me. But, if it’s on the table, I usually prefer to top.”

Harry swallows. “The idea of topping scares me shitless, to be honest. I know I’ll never live up to their expectations.”

“Yes, I imagine many a witch and wizard has warmed themselves at night imagining being tupped by you. A dashing hero with a giant dick, muscles rippling, buttons flying in the heat of passion.” He waves his hand in a studied manner, meant to inflict maximum condescension. “Etcetera, etcetera.”

As annoying as it is, he’s hit the nail right on the head. One of the most common things he hears when people meet him for the first time is ‘I thought you’d be taller’. Harry is not the larger-than-life hero who can fuck someone like they’re in a romance novel, and he’s never going to be. It sort of puts the pressure on.

Malfoy continues. “So, you’re scared of topping. That doesn’t actually mean you like the idea of getting fucked. Tell me Potter, what do you think about when you touch yourself?”

Harry nearly sprays his last mouthful of whisky, clapping a hand over his mouth just in time. “Christ, Malfoy.”

Malfoy grins and leans back in his chair. “Well?

Harry closes his eyes. The last time he’d wanked, he hadn’t thought of anyone in particular. For some reason he struggles to really get going when he thinks about Terran, guilty as that makes him feel. The anxiety always creeps in when he tries. So he closes his eyes then too, and lets himself imagine the sensations. He feels heat pressed all along his back, arms caging his chest. Being pressed face-first into the shower wall, murmuring in his ear, though he doesn’t try and conjure the words. That’s a fantasy he returns to often.

“Fuck me,” whispers Harry, his eyes still shut.

“Sorry, Potter. What was that?”

Harry opens his eyes and stares Malfoy down. He knows he heard him the first time. “I want you to fuck me.”

“Well,” says Malfoy, looking like the cat who got the cream. “Your wish is my command.”

Malfoy stands fluidly, still staring Harry down. He moves round the table and pulls Harry to his feet in one long stride, pulling Harry’s mouth to his without hesitation. He brackets Harry’s hips with his hands and pins them against the table, almost bending him backwards with the force of the kiss. Not one to back down from a challenge, especially one issued by Malfoy, he kisses back with equal intention. Malfoy’s mouth is less desperate and more demanding than before, his tongue sure of itself as it strokes against Harry’s.

Malfoy ends the kiss just long enough to look in Harry’s eyes, seeming to confirm something to himself. Harry doesn’t wait for him to come back, cupping his hand round the back of Malfoy’s neck and pulling him back in. He can feel the slide of his woollen jumper being pushed up his stomach, and he moves his hands from where they’re braced on the table behind him to raise them above his head. They break apart, gasping for the breath they’d forgotten they needed, and Malfoy tugs the jumper over his head. His t-shirt follows swiftly after, and then there are hands all over him. His skin feels hot and sensitive, like the fingertips trailing lightly over his ribs will leave bruises in their wake. Surely, Malfoy can’t touch him like this and not leave any evidence behind?

Harry wants to get Malfoy naked too, wants to see what’s hidden beneath all those layers of formality and artifice. When he tugs at Malfoy’s collar, he’s distracted by the small mark he finds under his jaw. Harry did that, and Malfoy hasn’t healed it. His mouth is drawn back to the love bite, licking over it with perverse satisfaction at its existence. Malfoy groans, and he can feel the vibration of it on his lips. Malfoy runs his hands down over his torso to rest at Harry’s jeans, pressing a hand into his groin. Harry gasps against Malfoy neck.

“Still with me?” he asks, posh voice turning rough. Harry nods vigorously, and Malfoy pushes his jeans partway down, before kneeling. “You’re still wearing your fucking shoes.”

“You’re still wearing everything,” says Harry, breathless but still sharp.

He takes out his wand and taps Harry’s trainers, before rising to his feet. Sure enough, the laces undo themselves, and Harry lifts his heels so the shoes can slip out from under his feet.

“Sometime I’ll take the time to undress you properly,” he says, punctuating his words with a kiss. “But right now-”

He seems to decide it’s not worth wasting time that could be spent kissing Harry by finishing his sentence.

His words ring a faint bell, an echo of another conversation. Another kiss. The thought fades as fast as it came- overtaken by the press of Draco’s thigh against his dick. He removes Harry’s glasses, barely pulling back far enough to take them off, and tucks them into his breast pocket. Little red lines mark his face from where the metal frames have pressed in. He kisses Harry again, several short kisses, like he means to stop but keeps being reeled back in.

Harry can feel his socks wiggling themselves off his feet, and he picks his legs up so his jeans can slide down and off his legs. Malfoy flicks his wand to end the spell, and curls his fingertips over the waistband of Harry’s pants.

“Okay?”

Harry nods again, and then he’s naked. He’s naked in the middle of Malfoy’s kitchen, and somehow the bastard is still fully dressed. Instead of feeling uncomfortable, it only makes him harder. Whereas yesterday he could feel the silk of Malfoy’s waistcoat against his dick, now he can feel the gentle scratch of his trousers, and it’s driving him fucking mad. The rub of the fabric is quickly replaced with Malfoy’s hand, giving him a beautifully brutal squeeze.

Then Malfoy’s hands are back at his hips, spinning him around to face the table, before a hot palm presses down on the middle of his back. The surface of the table is like ice against his overheated skin as he lets his forehead fall onto the wood. Out of the corner of his eye he can see a whisky glass, still half full.

Malfoy folds himself over Harry’s back, putting his mouth to his ear. “Still with me, Potter?”

“Yes,” he says, his voice scratching like a record over the word.

Malfoy’s warmth leaves his body, the only point of contact remaining is the hand cupping his hip. He murmurs two incantations, one after the other, and Harry feels a warmth followed by a tingling inside him. He recognises the feelings as spells for cleansing and protection. Malfoy whispers another spell, and he knows this one intimately. He hears the clatter of Malfoy tossing his wand onto the table, and stretches out his own hands from where they’re pinned underneath him to grip the rounded edge of the table across from him.

Sure enough, when Malfoy’s finger strokes over his hole, it’s wet with lube. Harry jumps, the small touch sending sparks ricocheting around his body. A palm strokes up and down his back, as if trying to soothing him.

“Alright?” he asks gently, as if he might frighten Harry off.

Harry pushes his hips back in answer, and Malfoy huffs a laugh, before sinking the digit in up to the knuckle. Harry’s dick almost hurts from where it’s mashed against the table, but he can’t help but be thankful. He probably wouldn’t last if he could rut into a soft bed.

He takes his time preparing him. Distantly, Harry thinks Malfoy’s back must be aching from staying in this position for so long. Leaning over, bent down to watch as his fingers are sucked into Harry’s body. He knows he’s watching, because he can feel his gaze like a physical touch, almost as powerful as the one inside him.

A finger crooks against just the right spot, and Harry makes a noise high in his throat.

“That’s it,” Malfoy croons.

He lays his body over Harry’s, running his nose up his spine before placing a delicate kiss at the base of his neck, contrasting the heavy nudge of Malfoy’s cock against his thigh.

“Are you ready for me, darling?”

The words settle like treacle on his brain- heavy and sticky and too, too sweet. Harry makes another little noise, smaller and more helpless than he can ever remember making before.

He can feel Malfoy’s teeth as he grins against his skin. “I need to know you’re with me or I won’t do it.”

“I’m here,” Harry pants. “I’m here.”

Malfoy takes him at his word. Harry’s nails scratch lines into the table as he pushes in, so slow Harry thinks he might have gone again after all and time has become distorted. But no, he can’t have done, because Malfoy’s breathing faster than ever into his ear. He bottoms out, and pauses for a second, before laying his hands over Harry’s on the table. Somehow, Harry understands what he’s asking. He laces their fingers together, proving he’s still there. Malfoy sighs, and pulls out, before thrusting back in with a smooth stroke that drags a moan from Harry.

“Yes,” hisses Malfoy. “That’s it, that’s it.”

Malfoy fucks him with precision. Each movement is calculated to be as destructive to Harry’s sanity as physically possible. Every now and then, he pushes in with a force that leaves his feet scrabbling at the tiled floor for purchase. However, it’s Malfoy’s _voice_ that’s cutting him to pieces, leaving him certain that he’ll never be able to pick himself up from this table.

“So good,” he mumbles, seeming almost unaware of the sounds tumbling from his mouth without end. “Being so good for me, taking it so well. You feel so good, darling, so beautiful. So pretty when I fuck you.”

Harry’s thoughts stutter and die at that last broken sentence, and he hears himself whine from a distance. He arches his back, pushing his chest harder into the wood, doing everything he can to keep Malfoy saying these things to him. He’s hitting his prostrate almost every time now, small sounds escaping and being stifled in an endless cycle.

“Let me hear you, darling,” he chants. “Show me you’re with me- I want you to know who’s fucking you.”

Malfoy winds a hand under Harry’s stomach to lift Harry’s hips off the table, and wraps his other hand around his cock. Harry inhales sharply. Malfoy’s balance is unsteady now, so he slides the hand on Harry’s stomach up to his chest and positions them so they’re almost upright, with Harry bracing his hands against the table. The new angle means Malfoy rubs inside him in a different way, and remembering that he wanted to hear him, he doesn’t stop the noises from spilling out.

“Yes,” he chants, over and over.

If Malfoy’s groan is the gravel that skins your knee, then his words are the fall that comes before it. “That’s it, good boy. Show me you like it.”

He takes one hand from where it’s holding him up to grab hold of Draco’s hair from behind. It’s damp with sweat, but still so soft between his fingers. He turns his head, and pulls Draco into a messy kiss. They’re both breathing hard, so they mostly just pant against each other’s mouths, letting their lips brush with every thrust that brings them closer together.

He moves his hand from Malfoy’s hair to clutch at his shirt, whining at the lack of skin. His hand moves faster over Harry’s dick, then he rubs his thumb over the head right at the same time as he nails his prostrate, and Harry is done for.

He comes with a sound closer to a sob than a cry of pleasure. Collapsing back against Draco, he heaves in deep lungfuls of air. His body feels somehow heavy and weightless at the same time, only held up by Draco’s arm around him. Draco pulls out and turns him around, manoeuvring him effortlessly. Harry’s breathing begins to slow.

He cups Harry’s chin and lifts it, forcing their eyes to lock. Whatever he sees there must answer his unspoken question, because he wraps his arm around Harry and apparates them upstairs. Malfoy lowers him onto a bed.

“Oh, so _now_ you take me to your bedroom,” grins Harry, still giddy and loose from his orgasm. Malfoy’s still dressed, though his flies are open and his belt is missing, but that’s not what makes Harry start. “You’re still hard.”

“Yeah,” says Draco, sitting on the bed. “I’ll just-” Expression glazed over, he doesn’t finish his sentence. Instead he touches himself, moving his hand up and down his cock as he moves his eyes over Harry’s body.

Harry bites his lip. “You can keep fucking me,” he says.

Draco’s hand stills, squeezing himself. “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” says Harry, letting his legs fall open, making space for Draco to crawl into. “I want you to.”

Draco bites his lip hard enough to leave a divot. “Fuck.”

He rushes into the space between Harry’s thighs and kisses him with an almost naïve enthusiasm. Harry feels worn out, and still shivery with praise. Draco pushing back in batters against some wall in his head, one that somehow hadn’t been knocked down when Draco was fucking him before, and he is inexplicably euphoric. He’s soft, his dick can’t even twitch, but it still feels so good. Facing him, he can finally see how dishevelled Draco looks, the flush on his cheeks. Making Draco this undone feels like a bigger achievement than anything else he’s done in years.

“Beautiful, darling. So good, letting me fuck you after you’ve already come. You just love it that much, don’t you?”

Harry hums in the back of his throat.

“Such a good boy. Getting on your knees, spreading your legs for me. What a perfect little slut.”

Harry gasps. He’s present enough in his mind to know that he really should want to punch Malfoy right now, but instead he just cants his hips up, hoping he’ll say it again.

“Is that alright, darling? Do you like being my slut?”

Harry takes Draco’s face in his hand, thumb stroking behind his ear, and kisses him. Draco’s hips stutter, before finally stilling. Warmth pools inside him, and he feels a rush of satisfaction at making Draco come. And, without warning, the realisation comes that he keeps slipping into thinking of him as Draco, not Malfoy. When did that happen? _Probably around the time he hit my prostrate,_ he thinks.

Draco stops himself from falling on top of him, but only just. He’s clearly still lost to the world, gathering Harry into his arms and brushing kisses up and down his neck.

“You did so well, so well.” He squeezes Harry’s arse before dipping two fingers back inside to feel his own come.

Harry gasps, feeling sensitive and a little embarrassed, now the high is wearing off. He really did let Draco say some ridiculous things to him. He squirms as Draco strokes at his inner walls, and thinks he wouldn’t mind if he kept saying them. Intuitive as ever, Draco obliges.

“There, darling, isn’t that just what you needed?”

Harry’s toes curl at that word. _Darling._ It should feel condescending, coming from Draco, but instead it just makes Harry feel treasured. Safe. Not something he’d ever ask for from Malfoy of all people, but he finds himself drunk on it all the same.

Draco seems to collect himself a little more, removing his fingers and reaching for a wand. He casts cleaning charms over them both, and settles back down, stroking over Harry’s skin like a nervous pet.

He kisses Harry’s shoulder. “Alright, Potter?”

“It’s Potter again then, is it?”

He huffs. “I do talk a lot of rubbish when I’m having sex.”

Harry stretches. “I don’t know, I liked it. It made me feel- weird. Good weird.”

“I should have known you’d have a praise kink,” he declares, laying his head back on the pillow. “You’ve gotten so used to everyone fawning over you, no wonder you can’t come without it.”

Harry hits his chest with the back of his hand. “You know that’s not true, you’re just trying to wind me up.”

Malfoy hums, and pulls him closer. “Seriously, Potter. How are you? I don’t _think_ you’re about to go into histrionics but I can never be sure with you.”

“I’ll be fine so long as you stop calling me Potter; it’s like being cuddled by Snape.”

“Lord,” he groans. “That is not an image I want in my mind’s eye.” Draco sighs, and wraps his arm tighter around him. “Well, I’m not calling you Harry. I may have actually made a blood pact when I was fourteen preventing me from doing so. How about a compromise?”

Harry turns his head, waiting to hear it.

“When we’re like this,” he says, illustrating his meaning with a squeeze at Harry’s waist. “I’ll call you darling. It rather suits you right now, though I imagine I’ll feel differently when you’ve got your clothes back on.”

Harry can’t help agreeing. Draco keeps swerving wildly from poncy bastard to intense lothario to gentle lover and back again. He can’t keep up, and frankly it’s exhausting. Harry’s eyes drift shut. At one point he hears the faint sound of running water, the rustle of clothes, but he’s too tired to remember he should be leaving. He feels a blanked being draped over him, warm weight at his side, and allows sleep to drag him under.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've split this chapter in two so you don't have to wait as long for an update. Additional warnings in the end notes.

Harry wakes to an empty bed and a pointy finger poking his cheek. “Wake up, Potter. It’s time for breakfast.”

He blinks his eyes open. Draco is leaning over him, wearing a wry smile that he quickly covers with annoyance. He’s fully dressed, in the same combination of fancy shirts and trousers, minus the waistcoat. His socks look hand-knitted, and for a moment Harry wonders who is knitting Draco socks. For some reason he can’t imagine Narcissa clacking a pair of knitting needles together. The image of Molly and Narcissa trading knitting patterns comes to mind, strange as a dream.

“I’m not cooking you breakfast,” mumbles Harry, eyelids already drooping shut again.

Draco jabs him extra hard. “Don’t be an idiot. I’ve made breakfast, you just need to come and eat it.”

That does sound more appealing. He forces himself to sit up, and immediately feels an unfamiliar ache. “God, I’m sore.”

Draco grins, pleased with himself, and pulls Harry out of bed. “Don’t bother getting dressed on my account.”

Harry rolls his eyes, and looks around the room. Where are his clothes? His wand must be in his trouser pocket still. With a spike of heat in his gut he remembers what happened in the kitchen last night, and where his clothes and wand must be. He goes into the adjoining bathroom to relieve himself. Wandlessly, he casts a cleaning charm over his teeth, wincing at the aggressive minty taste. Harry’s always struggles with subtlety when it comes to wandless casting. He spots a dressing gown hanging on the back of the bathroom door and snags it. It’s thin white cotton, but better than nothing.

Warm savoury aromas drift up the stairs. So, Draco really did make breakfast. He’d better go and take a look; if he ever managed to tell Ron and Hermione about all this, this is a story they’d want to hear. He pads downstairs and into the kitchen, immediately spotting his clothes folded into a pile on the chair. The smell of good food is stronger here, and the sight of Draco standing over the hob and pushing something round a frying pan is amusing in its domesticity.

“I didn’t know you could cook. I always thought you had house elves to do that for you.”

“I was effectively a muggle for three years, Potter. Muggles don’t have house elves.” His voice is impatient, but still mild. Clearly their truce is still in effect.

“Sorry, I forgot.” Harry grimaces, and tries to change the subject. “What’s for breakfast?”

“French toast and bacon,” he announces.

“French toast? I don’t think I’ve had that. Is it like, normal toast with snails or something?”

Draco snorts. “What are you on about? We had it at school all the time.”

“No we didn’t,” retorts Harry. “I think I’d know if I’d had something.”

Draco dishes up at the counter, and brings the plates over. “See? No snails.”

There are two rashers of perfectly cooked bacon on a slice of pillowy golden bread, soft in the middle with egg. Harry laughs. “That’s just eggy bread.”

“Yes,” says Draco, exasperated. “That is the basic concept.”

“No, that’s what it’s called. At least, we always called it eggy bread.”

Draco flicks his wand at the kettle to set it boiling. “Who’s we?”

“Ron, the Weasley’s. I’d never had it until I came to Hogwarts, the Dursley’s were more full English types.” He tucks into the food, and hums in appreciation.

“How is it you could eat a full English every day and still turn up at Hogwarts so skinny each year?”

Harry shrugs. “I just cooked it. I usually got some baked beans, because my uncle didn’t like them, and Dudley would never eat the tomatoes or the mushrooms.”

He goes back to his food, and the kettle finishes boiling. The mugs and tea bags sort themselves out, the milk jug hopping about impatiently.

“I thought it was exaggerated,” Draco says quietly. “The rumours about your aunt and uncle.”

“It got a lot better after Hogwarts, then they mostly just ignored me.”

“Do you think-” starts Draco, before apparently deciding against asking whatever question he has, and taking a bite of bacon instead.

Two mugs float over to the table, and Harry takes one, the ceramic warm in his hands. He takes a long sip, the tea still too hot, burning his tongue. “What are you up to today?”

“It’s Saturday, so I have the day off. I’m out with friends tonight, but apart from that, I intend to be lazy.”

“That’s a shame.”

“Why?” asks Draco, his eye catching on where the dressing gown is falling open slightly, revealing Harry’s nipple.

“I was hoping you’d fuck me some more.”

“Well,” says Draco. “Let it never be said I’m not adaptable.”

Harry smiles. “Can I use your shower?”

“Of course. Can I use it with you?”

Draco’s bathroom manages to be both cluttered and orderly. Every shelf seems to host a wide array of gels and potions and creams, all spaced a centimetre apart, labels facing outwards. How long does it take him to get up in the morning? Still, whatever he does, it works for him. Hair shiny yet soft, skin clear, and always smelling dark and sweet. Like burnt sugar. Harry supposes some people would describe Draco as feminine. The way he dresses, the way he moves his hands. Still, there is a power behind his pretty façade, a confidence that doesn’t rely on proving he’s a man.

Harry has never felt pretty. At a stretch, attractive. Molly sometimes call him handsome. He never got to choose what he wore as a child, then when he did have money to buy his own clothes he was almost always in uniform. So, he sticks with the same things he always wears. T-shirt, jeans, trainers. He doesn’t move like Draco, doesn’t lean with his hip cocked out in the way drags your eyes down his body. Harry had never felt pretty until Draco whispered it in his ear. He wants to feel it again.

Harry turns away from Draco and shrugs off the robe. He hears a small noise of appreciation from behind him and steps into the shower. Looking back, he sees Draco unbuttoning his shirt. “Hurry up, I don’t know how to work all these buttons, and I don’t want a cold shower.”

“It’s the one on the right,” Draco says, pushing down his trousers.

The water hails down like a sheet of ice, making Harry yelp and jump back. “You fucker!”

Draco laughs. “Pull it towards you, not back.”

The water warms up, and Harry shivers. He turns around to look at Draco properly; this is the first time he’s seen him fully nude. His limbs are long, not overly muscled, but he’s felt the strength behind them. There’s more hair than Harry expected, given how fair he is, and slightly darker than the hair on his head. Draco’s eyes flicker to his left arm, before meeting Harry’s defiantly. Of course, he’d known he has the mark. It’s grey and twisted now, like a tattoo where the skin has stretched and the ink has faded. Surprisingly, it doesn’t bother him. He knows who Draco Malfoy is. He doesn’t let himself stare at it, and instead looks up to his chest- his chest-

“Malfoy,” chokes Harry. “Is that-”

He rocks back on his heels, pausing, before stepping confidently forwards and into the shower. “Yes, you gave me these scars. No, you don’t need to fall over yourself apologising; I’m not interested in a masochistic tit for tat of who hurt the other worse. May we move on?”

Harry nods, but still strokes up his sternum to his collarbone, before retracing the path with his mouth. Draco grasps Harry’s hair in his hands, and moves under the spray, pressing him against the cold tiles. Water darkens his silvery hair, slicking it back against his head, running down his neck and onto Harry’s tongue. Draco pulls Harry’s head back until it knocks against the wall and kisses him with a cruel and selfish tongue.

His leg pushes between Harry’s thighs, making him gasp. “What do you need, darling?”

Harry freezes. What does he need? All he knows is that if Draco stops touching him he might die. “I don’t know.”

“Do you want me to suck you?”

God, yes. His knees threaten to buckle just at the thought. He nods. “Please.”

Draco kneels, looking up at Harry, grey eyes like Eider down. “It’ll be hard for me to check on you like this, so I need you to keep talking. Can you do that for me, darling?”

“Yes,” he breathes.

He runs the tip of his sharp nose down the length of Harry’s cock, and then licks back up. Harry cradles the back of his head with both hands, massaging into his scalp. Capturing the head in a dirty kiss, using his tongue like he would on Harry’s mouth, he holds Harry’s gaze.

“Oh, god.”

Draco smiles and says “Good, keep talking like that,” before taking him up to the entrance of his throat in one staccato movement.

Harry hisses a series of expletives as Draco moves up and down, nose brushing the hair at the base of Harry’s cock he takes him in so deep. He doesn’t get spit running down his chin like Harry had. In fact, he looks composed, like he would be smiling if he didn’t have to watch his teeth. That just won’t do. If Harry’s a mess, it’s only fair if Draco is too. But how to do it?

Well, he did ask him to talk. “Please Draco, I need you. I need you inside me.” He sees Draco’s eyes flash, and lets all his dirtiest thoughts spill from his mouth without filter. “I need it again. I felt so full, so good.”

Draco sucks harder, his nails digging into the crease between Harry’s arse and thighs. Harry closes his eyes, tips his head back, and lets the water run over his face.

“I want you inside me all the time, always want to be full of you. Want to be good for you, make you feel good too.”

Draco groans around his cock and he nearly collapses onto the floor of the shower.

“I’ll be so good, I promise.” His voice is so low and broken it’s almost a croak. “You can have me whenever you want, wherever. I’ll do anything if you just keep-”

His orgasm comes without warning, Draco’s mouth hot and wet around him. He screws his eyes shut even tighter, holding his breath. Draco’s hands flex, then stroke up and down the back of his thighs, before squeezing his arse.

“Sorry,” he whispers.

He opens his eyes as Draco pulls away, and he looks… wrecked. His eyes are wide, and full of something harsh and possessive. His mouth is open, panting, with a dribble of come at the corner of his sore red lips. “Don’t you dare apologise.”

Harry finally gives in and slumps down next to Draco, pushing up his hair from where it’s plastered to his neck. Draco pounces, and he can taste salt on his tongue as he kisses him. He’s practically growling into Harry’s mouth, and pulls them both upright.

“You can lie down later, but right now you’re going to do what you said and be a good boy for me.” He grabs Harry’s shoulders and turns him round to face the wall, grabbing Harry’s hands to place them on the tile. “Aren’t you?”

“Yes, yes.”

He wraps one arm around Harry’s chest and puts the other at his hip, just like when he fucked Harry on the kitchen table. Harry pushes his arse backwards, into Draco’s erection. “Squeeze your thighs together, darling. I promise I’ll fuck you properly later.”

Harry does as he says, shuffling his feet together and flexing the muscles in his thighs.

“That’s it,” he says, stroking Harry’s skin with his cock, and scraping his teeth behind Harry’s ear. “Are you sure you’re alright? We can leave it there if you want to.”

Harry rubs back against him. “Do it. I want to make you feel good, too.”

Draco tightens his arms, and pushes his dick between Harry’s thighs. It feels hot, and it looks red where it emerges under his balls, like all the blood in Draco’s body is in one place. Harry didn’t even know this is something people did, but he likes it. The body warm against his back reminds him of his fantasy, the one he thought of when Draco asked him what he imagined when he touched himself. This is better- it’s real.

Draco rests his forehead on the back of Harry’s neck and moves his hips in earnest. “Merlin, what you do to me. Did you know what you were doing, when you said I could have you whenever, wherever I wanted? Fuck, I want to _use_ you.”

Harry whimpers.

“Do you like that? Do you want to be my own personal fuck toy?”

Unbelievably, Harry starts to get hard again. He hasn’t recovered this fast since he was a teenager, but everything about Draco is getting under his skin.

Draco chuckles under his breath. “We’ll explore that kink later.” The warm water slicks the space between his thighs, runs over his sensitive dick. Draco moves faster, holds him tighter. “Lord, you feel so good. You’re being so good, staying so still and so tight, so patient.”

He tries to swallow, but his mouth is dry.

Draco moves his hand from Harry’s hip to touch him between his legs, feeling the beginnings of his erection. “Really, darling? What a good little slut you are, ready for another go. Don’t worry, I’ll fuck you again. I’ll fuck you over and over until-”

He comes midsentence, like Harry before him, sighing against the wet skin of his back. They just breath for a minute, Draco softening on Harry’s leg. Then, Draco starts to wash him. His hands are so gentle, such a contrast to the frantic energy of the moment before. When he’s done Harry’s back half he turns him round by his waist, still so, so gently. He reaches out and grabs a bottle from a shelf, pouring a small amount of shampoo in his hand and reaching up to lather Harry’s hair. There’s no scent, and for a moment Harry regrets that; he want to smell like Draco. Like he belongs to him.

When Draco runs his fingers over Harry’s scalp he can’t stop a moan sounding, guttural, from the back of his throat. Still loose from his first orgasm, his muscles relaxed under the hot water, he might have fallen asleep if he wasn’t so turned on. Draco shields Harry’s eyes with his palm and tips his head back under the water, rinsing out the suds.

Taking his hand, he leans around him to turn off the shower, then tugs him out to stand on the bathmat. He grabs a huge white bath towel and drapes it over Harry like a cloak. It’s not fluffy anymore, well-worn and absorbent, and Harry pulls it tighter around himself. Draco wraps a smaller towel around his own waist before returning to Harry. He dries Harry just as carefully as he washed him, like a child. He could easily use a spell, and yet he seems to want to do it by hand. Draco kneels down, drying his legs and feet one at a time, in a mirror image of how he’d knelt before.

Harry is silent. What would it have been like, to have been looked after this way- if he’d always had people to care about him? Would he still be as fucked up as he is now? Harry has a tendency to blame everything that wrong and strange about his mind on the war, but he realises now that it’s not the whole truth. Something’s been wrong with him for a long time. Longer than he can remember. Draco stands, and uses the towel around Harry’s shoulders to scrub at his hair. He takes the towel, folding it precisely in two before he hangs it back on the rack. Looking back at Harry, his face pales.

“Are you crying?”

Is he? He doesn’t know. Now that he thinks about it his face does seem wet, but surely that could be from when his hair was still dripping. He opens his mouth to deny it, but all that comes out is a sob. Between his legs, his dick is still heavy and sensitive. How can he be crying and aroused at the same time? There truly is something deeply wrong with him.

Draco rushes forwards to hold him again. “Darling, what’s wrong? What did I do?”

He hides his head in Draco’s chest but he can’t stop crying. He manages to prevent any more embarrassing sobs from escaping, but his breath is still stopping and starting like an old car. Draco’s arms are warm and strong around him, and he clutches at his back in return.

“Did I go to far? What can I do? Tell me what to do,” pleads Draco.

Harry manages to control his breathing long enough to talk. “I’m fine.”

Draco clucks his tongue and says “You’re clearly not,” but instead of interrogating him further he just walks Harry back into the adjoining bedroom and sits him down on the bed.

“I really am fine,” says Harry, who’s finally stopped crying. He wipes the tears from his eyes with the back of his fist. “God, I’m sorry, this is so stupid.”

Draco lies down on the bed, on his side, leaving space for Harry to join him. Harry, who wants noting more than to be held again, does exactly that. Draco smooths his hands down Harry’s arms, up his back, over his hair, until his breathing is normal again.

Draco cups Harry’s face, his thumb resting on his cheek. “It’s not stupid.”

Harry hums.

“Can you tell me what I did wrong?”

“You didn’t do anything wrong. It’s just- you were just- you were taking care of me!” Tears threaten Harry’s eyes again. “You were taking care of me, and isn’t that ridiculous, considering I’m the one who gave you these?” he says, tracing a finger over the scars on Draco’s chest.

Draco captures his hand, and presses his knuckles to his lips. “You deserve to be taken care of Harry.”

“Don’t,” he snaps, jerking his hand away.

“Don’t what? Tell the truth? I could kill that idiot boyfriend of yours for not treating you better.”

“Ex-boyfriend,” he corrects. Harry’s not cheating. “He treats me fine, I’m just a freak who can’t handle a normal relationship.”

“Don’t be self-deprecating, it doesn’t suit you,” he sniffs.

“So, you’re allowed to insult me, but I’m not allowed to insult myself?”

Draco smiles. “That’s about the size of it. Besides, you’re insulting yourself in all the wrong ways.”

Harry leans his head on Draco’s shoulder. “Well, you _are_ the expert, after all those years of practice.”

“Exactly. Glad you’ve come to see it my way.”

Harry sighs. Draco’s given him an unpleasant reminder. He’s supposed to be doing this as a way to make things work with Terran, and yet if he could wave his wand and have him be the one holding him instead of Draco, he doesn’t think he’d do it. Guilt pools hot and sour in his gut. He tries to picture Terran washing his hair, drying him, minutes after whispering filth into his ear. He can do it, but the picture doesn’t look right. His face blurs, hair turns paler. Terran turns back into Draco whenever he tries. But. But he doesn’t have relationship with Draco. Right now, he doesn’t have one with Terran either, but he could. Harry loved him- loves him. Why can’t he remember that?

Trying to escape from these thoughts, he kisses Draco again. The kiss is small, almost shy, testing the waters. Does he still want him, after seeing him cry? Draco makes a soft noise, and kisses him back. He meets him with the same tentative questions on his lips, his tongue, as he licks into Harry’s mouth. Draco pulls their hips flush. _Yes_ , their bodies answer. _I still want you._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warnings:  
> References to past child abuse/neglect, vis-à-vis the Dursleys.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's that second half! No extra warnings for this chapter.

They just kiss for a long time, sinking into the feeling of skin on skin, the dragging of lips and tongues. Harry still hasn’t put his glasses back on, so everything further away than Draco’s face is a little blurry. He’s the only thing in focus. It’s the most innocent they’ve ever been, reminiscent of when he and Ginny first got together, both eager and bashful. Though, they’d been wearing a lot more clothes than he and Draco are now. Draco finally pulls away, but he doesn’t get far. He seems distracted by the curve of Harry’s neck, and starts sucking bruising kisses in the places where the muscles jump and stretch. His nose brushes a spot under his jaw that tickles, and he jerks his body, laughing, causing their erections to rub together.

“Hey, can I ride you?”

Draco groans into his collarbone. “You’re going to be the death of me, Potter. I thought you would be, years ago, but now I’m certain.”

Harry pushes at his shoulder, separating their upper halves. “Don’t ‘ _Potter_ ’ me, Malfoy. I told you, it kills the mood.”

“Does it?” he asks lightly, reaching down to stoke Harry’s cock. “It doesn’t feel like it. Besides, you call me Malfoy.”

Harry just closes his eyes, taken over by Draco’s casual, proprietary handling of him.

“It could be fun. I had a few fantasies back in the day I wouldn’t mind trying out.” Draco’s tone is offhand, but there’s a tension in his voice he can’t hide.

“You thought about this in school?”

“From about fifth year, but sixth year it really got out of hand.” Draco grins, and his teeth look sharp, dangerous. “I still hated you, you understand, but I’d wank to the thought of our fights ending a little differently.”

Harry sits up, and swings his leg over Draco’s hips to straddle him. “What did you imagine, then? What did you picture doing to me?”

Draco shuffles until he’s upright, their faces level, with Harry sitting in his lap. He grabs Harry’s arse cheeks, massaging them, letting a thumb dip into the crease.

“Well,” he says, clearing his throat. “I’d have just said something very clever and highly insulting. You’d attack me, and we’d tussle. I’d be winning of course,”

“Of course,” repeats Harry, rolling his eyes and his hips.

“I manage to pin you down, hold your hands above your head. I’m on top of you, and I realise I’m hard, and it’s pressing into you. I know you can feel it.”

Their noses brush as Harry nods, telling him to keep going.

“I can see it on your face; You look shocked, eyes wide behind those ridiculous glasses. Your hair all messy from the fight, even messier than it normally is, and you’re panting. I lean down and whisper in your ear.”

At some point Draco seems to have slipped into present tense. It looks like that fantasy isn’t as distant as he pretended. He reaches behind him and guides that thumb further down until it brushes at his hole. Draco’s eyes darken, and he dips inside.

Harry moans. “What do you say?”

Draco looks dazed. “What?”

“In your fantasy- what do you say?”

“Oh,” he sighs. “I say: I’m going to fuck you, Potter.”

“Yes,” breathes Harry. “Do it, please.”

Draco huffs a laugh. “Would you look at that, you already know your lines.”

Harry flicks him on the arm as he grabs his wand from the bedside table.

Draco kisses him quickly, there and gone again, like he can’t help himself. “There’s a spell I can use, to prepare you; I don’t like to use it often, but I don’t know how long I can wait. Can I use it?”

“Yes, yeah, I want you now.”

This time it’s Harry who can’t help kissing him, and his eyes are closed when he feels the usual two spells, followed by the new one. He gasps. It’s strange and shocking. He’s suddenly wet and open, his inner muscles twitching and clenching reflexively.

“Alright, darling?”

Harry smiles. “I thought I was ‘Potter’, now?”

“That’s right.” Draco- _Malfoy_ \- smirks. He flicks his wand, and Harry’s glasses shoot into his hand. He places them carefully onto Harry’s face and chucks his wand away again. “Now, Potter. Fuck yourself on my cock.”

Harry lifts up, thighs straining, and holds Draco’s cock in place as he lowers himself back down. His renewed clarity of vision means he can see every flinty shard in Draco’s irises before they are swallowed by black. He feels so full. The charm prepared him well, but he didn’t have the chance to get used to the sensation of something inside him the way he did when Draco used his fingers. His fingers are pressing bruises onto Harry’s hips, and the expression on his face is almost feral. Harry starts to move.

Draco’s voice becomes more clipped, polished, a hasher version of himself coming to the fore. “That’s right Potter, take it. You were made to be fucked.”

“Shut up, Malfoy,” he snaps, pretending annoyance where he only feels heat.

“I’ll shut _you_ up,” he says, before tapping two fingers at Harry’s lips. “Suck.”

Harry obeys, taking the digits into his mouth and suckling. The shape of them in his mouth, pressing down on his tongue, provokes something in him. He can’t bounce up and down so vigorously with Draco’s fingers in his mouth, so he changes to a rocking, rolling motion. The change has Draco’s dick hitting his prostrate every time, and he can only suck harder at the fingers in his mouth.

“Who knew you were such a slut, Potter?”

Harry almost squeaks around the fingers in his mouth, before they’re pulled away. He uses the wet fingers to rub around the rim of Harry’s hole where the base of Draco’s dick is sliding in and out.

“Tell me you hate me,” Draco begs.

“What? I don’t-”

He thrusts up, frantic, losing control. “Just say it, Potter. Please.”

“I hate you,” he whispers.

Draco comes with a grunt, nails digging red crescents into Harry’s skin. _What on earth?_ Maybe it’s just part of the game they’re playing, but it feels like more than that. For the first time, Harry wonders if Draco isn’t a little fucked up about sex, too. He’s still inside him, not soft yet, and he jerks Harry with a merciless pace. He kisses him like he wants to climb inside him and never leave, and despite his confusion, Harry comes too.

They sit like that for a moment, Harry still in his lap. Draco strokes up and down his back, as if Harry needs comforting. Looking at Draco’s face- a little lost, a little panicked- he wonders if he’s actually trying to comfort himself. His face changes, putting on a mask of smug satisfaction, erasing any lingering traces of distress. Should Harry say something? Before he can think of what to say, or ask, Draco speaks.

“I’d have joined the bloody Order of the Phoenix if it meant you’d let me fuck you in sixth year.”

Harry rolls his eyes and just kisses him again.

He’s standing in front of his floo, powder in hand, and at this moment he’d rather face a basilisk armed only with a quill and a dungbomb. It’s time for Sunday lunch at the Burrow. It’s not that he doesn’t want to see them, but he doesn’t want to see them knowing full well that he’s had sex with Malfoy four times in less than a week. There’s no way he’ll be able to look Molly in the eye when he can still feel him inside him. Not literally of course, he’s had two showers since then, but he can still feel him somehow.

They had kissed a while, after they finished the last time, but eventually Harry had decided to go home. He was too sore to go again, and he didn’t want to overstay his welcome. It had been almost amicable, by that point. Someone who didn’t know Draco might have even called him cheerful as he escorted Harry to the door.

It’s actually a little early. Most people won’t arrive for another few minutes at least, but he knows if he waits any longer, he’ll talk himself out of going at all. So he throws the powder into the fire, watches the flames turn green, and screws his courage to the sticking place.

Harry stumbles over the rug in front of the fireplace, just like he’s done every Sunday for the past six years. The rug never moves, and Harry never remembers. He doesn’t normally mind it, it’s practically tradition now. Except that, this time when he tips forward and throws out an arm to balance himself, someone catches him. The hands are strong where they grip him round his forearm and his waist, and they don’t let go immediately. Instead, they squeeze tighter in shock. Half standing from his seat on the sofa with a cup of tea spilling onto his lap, is Draco.

Harry rights himself, Draco lets go, and Molly springs into action.

“Oh Draco, your tea! It’ll ruin your trousers.” She rushes over, hovering, realising that she can’t exactly do anything when the spill is on Draco’s crotch. “I know some excellent charms for fabric so not to worry, dear.”

Meanwhile, Draco places the offending cup on the coffee table, dries his trousers, and removes the stain. “That’s alright Mrs Weasley, I’m a dab hand at them myself. I was always spilling things when I was a child, always flinging my hands about at the dinner table, so it’s one of the first spells my mother taught me.”

She smiles. “The twins were the same, they wore more of their dinner than they ate. George still does sometimes. And I told you, Draco, you must call Molly.”

Draco’s answering smile is gracious. “Of course, Molly. I’ll try to remember.”

Harry looks on in shock. By all appearances Draco Malfoy is having tea with Molly Weasley. Molly’s warm eyes then turn to Harry, pinning him down.

“Harry dear, you look pale. Let me get you something to eat.”

He supposes he would look pale, after that. “I’ll be eating a roast dinner soon, Molly, I’ll be fine.”

Arthur descends the stairs into the living room, brandishing a rectangular object. “I found it! It was buried in a box of walkie-talkies, but I found it.”

“What is it?” he asks.

“Ah, Harry! It’s something called a HVS, and Draco was going to explain how it works.”

“I don’t know exactly _how_ it works, but I can tell you how you use it,” offers Draco.

Now that he’s closer, he can see Arthur is holding a VHS tape. The bold writing on the front reads ‘Dances with Wolves’. Now that Arthur’s distracted them, he needs to get out of this mess. He needs a minute alone to compose himself.

“I- er,” he stammers. “Bathroom.”

He dashes off, already mentally kicking himself. What a way to seem relaxed and not at all like he just fell out of the floo and on top the man he’s been fucking, whom Arthur and Molly apparently adore but everyone else loathes, and Harry is very confused about all round. He shuts himself in the bathroom, splashing water on his face. Gripping the sink, he stares accusatorily the mirror.

Fuck. What was that? That was not normal. What would be normal is if Draco let him fall, then made fun of him for it. What would normal is if Draco turned his nose up at anything and everything Weasley. What would be normal is Harry not having had life-altering sex with Draco Malfoy just yesterday. And yet, here they are. He needs to get a grip. New plan: act normal. If Draco could do it (and he could, damn him) then so can he.

As he comes back down the stairs, he hears Molly using her persuasive powers in full force.

“But you must stay and eat Draco. How would that look, if everyone arrived and we were turning you out on your ear, no meat on your bones, pale as you are. They’d think we were monsters. They’d think you weren’t welcome, and we can’t have that, because you know you are welcome, don’t you Draco?”

He alights the final step in time to see Draco looking poleaxed. “You’ve made me feel very welcome Molly, I’m very grateful.”

“Well then, it would make me very happy if you’d stay. You’ll stay for me, won’t you?” Molly’s eyes are narrowed; she knows exactly what she’s doing. No one can fight Molly’s mother-henning for long, let alone someone so unprepared and committed to politeness.

“Of course, thank you very much for inviting me.”

The words look forced out of him. He’s gripping his refilled cup of tea so tightly the handle might snap off into his refined hand. Harry knows this is his idea of a nightmare, and he can commiserate. It’s a nightmare for him too. He hasn’t even told Ron and Hermione, and what if they can tell? What if they can just sense it, somehow?

Their eyes meet across the living room, and they share a look of panic. They’re united in that, at least. Harry doesn’t know how to act around him outside of the context of a bedroom. Or a shower. Or a kitchen table. He doesn’t know if their tentative comradery can carry them through a conversation where they can’t use their hands and mouths to smooth the rough edges. He takes a deep breath. At seventeen he dove to the bottom of a freezing lake to retrieve the Sword of Gryffindor. He can do this. Never mind he nearly drowned while being strangled by a locket, that’s not currently helpful to the positive attitude he’s attempting to cultivate.

People start arriving. First Ginny, who lets out a small giggle of hysteria when she sees Draco before clapping a hand over her mouth. Then George, who laughs and claps him a little too hard on the shoulder. Then Percy, who just blinks, before ignoring him completely. Then Bill and Fleur. Bill says greets him with “Malfoy” and shakes hands with him politely, if coolly. Fleur gives him the customary kiss on both cheeks. Granted, it’s in the middle of greeting everyone this way, and Draco’s sort of just gotten lost in the mix, but she does do it. Finally, Ron and Hermione arrive.

The living room is crowded now, almost all the available seats taken, and somehow Harry finds himself seated opposite Draco. His eyes flick to Harry, as if seeking support, or an out. He shrugs, apologetic, and Draco looks away again. Hermione looks as if she very much wants to be calm about this, but very much isn’t. Ron looks like he’s been walloped in the face with a frying pan.

Dinner is both better and worse than Harry expected. Better, because there are no outright arguments or explosions. Worse, because he can feel the bubble of silence around Draco, everyone but Arthur and Molly doing their best to pretend he isn’t there. Better, because he’s sat next to him at the table, and he can nudge his leg against Draco’s in quiet support. Worse, because at one point his hand drops to Harry’s thigh and it makes him spill gravy down his jumper.

He ends up talking to him a little, trying to show the others that this is all perfectly fine and ordinary, thank you very much. Which is bullshit, of course, but he can tell it’s necessary. Just small things like ‘Could you pass the peas?’ and ‘Oh I didn’t catch that match, Ron. Did you Malfoy?’

As it happens, that last one was a big mistake, because he remembers at the last minute exactly why both of them didn’t catch that Quidditch match on the wireless. Draco was probably fucking his thighs around the time they released the snitch, and he was probably tossing Harry off as he sat in his lap around the time the seeker caught it.

Blushes are easy to detect on skin as pale as Draco’s, and he’s definitely blushing now. “No Potter, I missed that one.”

He doesn’t say anything else, doesn’t make any verbal jabs or jokes like he might have if they were alone. What he does do is run his foot from the inside of Harry’s ankle and up his leg, in clear retaliation. Harry thinks he would have preferred a stinging hex; pain would be easier to hide than his squeak of panicked arousal.

“Are you alright, Harry?” Hermione asks with a pinched brow.

“Fine,” he says, overcompensating until his voice comes out a little too low.

She’s still frowning but she doesn’t push it, god love her. They make it through dinner, and Draco makes his excuses, Molly pushing leftovers into his hands before he goes.

“Well, that was bloody weird,” says Ron.

Hermione just hums, looking at Harry speculatively.

Harry clears his throat. “Can I talk to you two about something? Privately?”

They say their goodbyes and head back to Grimmauld Place. Harry’s not ready to tell them everything, but he doesn’t like keeping secrets from them, and he does need to talk. Sometimes he doesn’t know what he really thinks about something until he telling them. Sitting in the kitchen, holding his warm mug of tea like a shield or a talisman, he starts to talk.

“So, Terran broke up with me.”

“What?” squawks Hermione.

Ron’s jaw clenches, but he doesn’t say anything yet.

“Yeah. It actually happened last Thursday, but I wasn’t ready to talk about it before. I know I should have said something on Friday, but I just… It was like I thought if I didn’t tell anyone then it wouldn’t be real.”

“Oh mate,” sighs Ron.

Hermione reaches out to lay a hand on his forearm. “What happened?”

“Nothing happened, that’s the problem.”

Ron folds his arms. “So it was about the sex.”

He can tell Ron’s getting angry. For some reason, Ron gets a little overprotective when it comes to Harry and men. Hermione would say it’s a combination of subconscious misogyny and homophobia, but sometimes he could act like Harry was a little sister who needed protecting. Not that Ginny needs protecting, but he supposes that’s what Hermione means. Harry doesn’t entirely agree with her assessment, but he doesn’t really disagree either. If he’s being honest, he doesn’t mind it. It’s nice to have someone care that much.

Harry nods. “Yeah, it was about- that.”

“You should have come to us straight away,” scolds Hermione. “I can’t believe you just dealt with it by yourself. Or didn’t deal with it, knowing you.”

“Well, not exactly.” He bites his lip. “Something else happened that night.”

Ron takes a loud slurp of tea, and Hermione glares at him. Harry clears his throat. A large part of him wants to just spill his guts about everything that’s happened with Draco, but an even larger part of him knows that Ron would blow up, and he isn’t in the mood to deal with that. He’s going to have to get a little creative with the truth. Shit. Harry hates lying, and what’s more, he’s terrible at it.

“I wanted a drink after, so I went to a bar. I ended up talking to someone, he could tell I was upset, and I sort of told him everything. He had some… ideas, about what the problem might be, so he offered to help. Anyway, it worked. We had sex.” Harry looks down into his mug, not wanting to meet their eyes. “A few times.”

Ron splutters and Hermione gawps.

“You said this was at a bar,” says Hermione urgently. “Were you drunk? Are you sure he didn’t take advantage of you?”

Ah. He should have known Hermione would want to pick the story to pieces. “No, I only had one drink.”

“And was it okay? Did he treat you alright?” grills Ron.

Harry blushes. “It was pretty amazing. I had a few weird moments, but not during, and he was actually really good about it.”

“So what about Terran?” Hermione wonders. “Are you ready to move past him?”

“I don’t know. At first I wanted to have sex with Ma- this guy- so I could make things work with Terran.” Wait. _At first?_ Doesn’t he still want to? “Do you think I should?”

“We all liked Terran, even if we didn’t always agree with how he went about things, but I’m not sure.” Hermione tilts her head. “If a stranger could help you feel comfortable enough to do something you’ve been struggling with for years in one night, and Terran couldn’t in almost a year, then maybe Terran just isn’t the right person.”

Harry shifts guiltily. “It wasn’t actually a stranger.”

“You what? Who was it?” demands Ron.

Fuck. He’s going to have to think fast. “He’s not out to anyone yet, so I don’t think I should tell you.”

Hermione nods, understanding. “It’s a wizard then?”

“Yeah.”

“Are you going to see him again, do you think?” Hermione asks.

“I can’t really avoid it.”

Ron leans forward, intrigued. “Do _we_ know him?”

Harry groans. “If you keep asking who it is I’ll give you the gory details, and then you’ll be sorry.”

Ron leans back and sits up straight so fast his chair almost tips back. “No thanks, mate. Actually, I think I might just pretend you’re still a virgin, for the sake of my sanity.”

They laugh, and Harry manages to drop the conversation. He’s gotten the bulk of it off his chest, and Hermione’s given him something to think about. If he does manage to get Terran back, does he even still want him? He’s been so wrapped up in Draco that he’s barely thought about him. Harry feels a little guilty again. He thinks he loves him, but what if he doesn’t? What if he was just so desperate for a normal relationship that he pinned all his hopes on one man and refused to consider anything else, even when it wasn’t working?

Harry tries to think of all the things he loves about Terran. His brash sense of humour. His affectionate touches. The quiet nights they spent talking about everything and nothing. They get on well, most of the time. Is that enough? These days Harry’s not so sure.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I probably should have called this fic 'Let's Talk About Sex', because that's what about a third of this fic is. However, I'm committed to at least of semblance of realism, so there we are.  
> I'm also going to have to change the tags a bit, as this is getting heavier than I planned/  
> Additional warning in the end notes.

Draco doesn’t turn up and harass Harry when he gets back to work on the ballroom on Monday, and part of him is disappointed, even though he knows it’s for the best. He’ll never get anything done if Draco keeps distracting him like he did in the attic last Friday. Still, he finds himself a little distracted anyway. He starts off with the same patch of soot he was attacking last Thursday, when Draco came and made his offer. If he squints, he can still see a slight footprint on the floor. He had stood in that exact spot and kissed Draco Malfoy for the first time.

Despite his wandering thoughts he makes good progress, and is just about to head home and run himself a bath before an owl flies through one of the windows (still without any glass, he needs to remember to contact his supplier) and lands on his arm. He recognises her as Roberta, Draco’s owl. The note is brief, but thankfully nowhere near as filthy as his last missive.

_There are some things we need to discuss. Are you free to meet me?_

There’s no greeting or signature. He knows Harry knows who sent it. Biting his lip, Harry rereads it. _Things to discuss_ has never spelled anything good before. He doesn’t have anything to write with, or even paper. Looking around the floor, Harry picks up two pieces of rock from the rubble, and transfigures them into a quill and ink. He turns the note over and writes on the back.

 _I’ve just finished work and need to clean up, but you can come to mine if you want. The address is 12 Grimmauld Place. Let yourself in through the floo- you’ll find me in the bath._

Hopefully confronting Draco while naked will help persuade him out of breaking off their arrangement. He’s still getting used to the idea that Draco likes his body, that he’s attracted to him, but he doesn’t have any qualms about using it. This thing, whatever it is, is too good for him to give up just yet.

Sending the letter off with Roberta, Harry disapparates. His house is relatively tidy; years of the Dursley’s punishments for any speck of dust left on the mantelpiece means he can’t leave a dish or a newspaper lying around without feeling anxious. It’s his house, and he still feels like someone’s going to scream at him if he dares to get it messy. The bedroom however, is a different story. Maybe it’s because he didn’t have a bedroom for so long, and when he did all his things were locked in a cupboard, but this room seems to have different rules. There are shirts strewn over the back of his desk chair, a lone sock on the floor, and a mug on the windowsill. It’s not a tip, but it’s certainly more relaxed. Almost regretfully, Harry tidies up a little. If things go better than he expects they actually will, they might end up back here.

He takes off his glasses and casts a temporary charm over his eyes. There's no point in fogged up glasses. Harry rinses the soot off in the shower for a minute while he runs his bath, wanting the warm water to be clean and fresh. He even adds some of the salts Hermione gave him last Christmas, the ones that claim to relax aching muscles, that he rarely bothers to use. Not that he has baths very often at all, but since Friday he can’t have a shower without becoming incredibly turned on, remembering Draco on his knees and against his back.

Sinking into the warm water, Harry lets out a deep sigh. There’s a faint tingling from the salts, and he can feel them working already, aches he didn’t even know he had disappearing. He submerges himself more deeply, letting the water lap over his chest. His eyes close without his permission, surrounding him in comforting heat and darkness. There’s a creak on the stairs that lets him know Draco got his message, and took him up on his offer. Inviting Draco to Grimmauld, giving him the address, telling him to let himself in. It shows a little more of Harry’s feelings than is probably wise.

He hears Draco open the bathroom door, but he doesn’t open his eyes. “Hey.”

“Hello,” greets Draco. He doesn’t say ‘Hello, Potter’ or even ‘Hello, darling’. Maybe he’s just as unsure as Harry as to where they stand right now.

Harry opens his eyes and sees Draco hovering in the doorway, much like he’d appeared in the doorway of the ballroom less than a week ago. His body lacks the confidence of before, he looks almost hesitant now.

“You can come over, Malfoy, you’ve seen it all before.”

Draco ambles over, his cocky smile reasserting itself once more. “That I have.”

“Sorry about this,” says Harry, gesturing to the bath. “I’ve spent all day wrestling with your bloody house and I’m knackered.”

“Don’t apologise, Potter. It makes for a lovely view.”

Draco kneels down next to the bath and rests his folded arms on the side. He’s left his hair loose, without any of the product he sometimes uses, and it’s already starting to curl from the steam. Harry wants to touch it, but his hands are wet, and Draco would probably tell him off.

“So, what did you want to talk about?” asks Harry, trying to sound unconcerned with limited success.

“I suppose I have some questions,” he says, rolling up his sleeve and trailing a hand in the water.

His left sleeve. Harry wonders if he’s showing him the Mark on purpose, and if so, why. Is he trying to push Harry away by reminding him about his past, or perhaps he’s making himself a little vulnerable too, to even the playing field? He knows Draco too well to think it’s merely a coincidence.

Draco continues. “Do you remember what I told you about meeting my friend Simi, and learning about BDSM?”

“Yeah, I remember. You were talking about- what did you call it? Aftercare.”

“That’s right,” Draco nods. “Well, I noticed there’s a certain… dynamic we seem to fall into, when we have sex, and I wondered if you wanted to explore that further.”

“What do you mean?”

Draco’s smile is amused but not unkind. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed you have a submissive streak a mile wide.”

Harry’s face reddens, and he tips his head back into the water to avoid looking Draco in the eye.

“It might just be me and my own tendencies, shaping the way things unfold, but I don’t really believe that’s the case. Is it, darling?”

Harry’s breath hitches. “I liked it when you were, um, rough, but I don’t really know about- you know. BDSM, or whatever. I don’t think I like the idea of someone hurting me, or hurting someone else. I’m not judging, that’s fine if that’s your thing, but I’ve had enough of pain.”

Draco hums, and rests his hand on Harry’s knee where it rises out of the water. “I’m not interested in hurting you Harry.”

Now it’s Harry’s turn to raise his eyebrows. He can’t raise one at a time, which bothers him no end.

“Not anymore, anyway,” concedes Draco. “I had no control over my life for a long time, or I felt like I didn’t. Someone trusting me, someone giving me control willingly, is a rush.”

“I can understand that, but I didn’t have any control either. So why don’t I want that too? Why do I want to-”

He doesn’t finish his sentence. Not because he doesn’t know how, but because he’s unnerved by the ending. He wants to give Draco control. He already has, a bit, but now he wants to do it consciously.

Draco cocks his head thoughtfully. “Everyone looked to you to save them. You had to make the kind of decisions no one should ever have to make, let alone a child. That kind of responsibility is a lot to bear. It would make sense, if you needed to let go, let somebody else take charge.”

Harry dances his fingers across the ripples in the water. “I think you’re probably right. But how do we do it? What does it mean?”

“We don’t have to do anything if you don’t want to. But, if you want to try it, we can work off of what we’ve already done. Last time I mentioned your praise kink- do you know what that means?”

Harry rolls his eyes. “I think I can work it out.”

“Tell me how it feels when I praise you.” He runs the hand that isn’t on his knee through Harry’s hair. “How does it feel when I tell you how good you are, how beautiful.”

Harry shivers, despite the heat of the water. “It feels like I’d do anything you tell me to.”

Draco’s fingers tighten in Harry’s hair, sending sparks across his skin. Harry has to bite his lip to hold back a moan.

“Do you want me to tell you what to do?”

“Yes,” he whispers.

Draco leans back, removes his hands from Harry’s body, and gets a little more serious. “After the shower that time, the way you reacted to me taking care of you was intense. Do you want to try something like that, in this context?”

“Maybe.”

Draco stands abruptly, and wipes his hands on his trousers. “Okay then. We’ve still got lots to talk about, so we should probably get comfortable. Finish your bath and I’ll meet you in the kitchen.”

“I swear we spend more time talking about sex than actually doing it,” says Harry petulantly.

Draco just laughs and walks away.

When Harry arrives in the kitchen, Draco presents him with a mug of tea. It’s exactly how he likes it, and Harry wonders when he learned how Harry takes his tea. Probably when Harry learned how Draco takes his, staring at him from across the Great Hall day after day. Draco’s never been in his kitchen, as far as he knows, but he certainly seems at home. A guest making him tea in his own house would usually rankle, but for some reason it’s different coming from Draco.

“First things first,” starts Draco. “You need a safeword. Are you aware of the purpose of a safeword?”

“It’s to tell you to stop, isn’t it? Though why can’t we just say ‘stop’?”

“Sometimes people are playing a role, or they get so worked up that they say ‘stop’ but they don’t actually want to, or they want to stop what they’re currently doing but not end the scene altogether. If you use your safeword I know something’s wrong, and I end the scene right away.”

“Okay,” he says, holding his warm mug to his chest.

“It should be something you’ll remember, but not something you would say normally. My safeword is Mandrake.”

Harry nods. “Mandrake, okay. I’ll use… Felix.”

“Felix it is.” Draco clears his throat. “I know you’re not all that familiar with all the options, but is there anything you can think of that you particularly want to try? I can’t promise I’ll agree to it, but I won’t judge you either.”

Harry watches him drum his long fingers anxiously against the ceramic of his mug, and takes another sip of his own tea. He imagines those fingers wrapping around his wrists, pinning them down. Leaving a bruise. He was telling the truth earlier, pain doesn’t really interest him, but the idea of Draco leaving a mark on him does.

Draco’s throat moves as he swallows, and Harry remembers him sucking him off. Then he remembers sucking Draco off, that first time, and wants to do it again. He pictures himself on his knees, and this time Draco doesn’t hold back. He’d been so careful, had pulled away so as not to come in Harry’s mouth. He’d liked that Draco had cared enough to do that, but he doesn’t think he wants that all the time.

Harry lowers his eyes. “I want you to hold me down, and leave bruises in the shape of your fingers. I want to get on my knees again and let you fuck my face until I choke. I want you to tie me up so I can’t move, so you can do anything you want to me.” He forces himself to look Draco in the eye. “Really, I just want you to use me.”

Draco’s voice is ragged as he says “I can do that. I can do all of that.”

“Why?” he breathes. “I still don’t even get why you offered to help me in the first place. Why do you want to do this with me when you could go back to that leather bar and find someone who knows what they’re doing? Someone you never hated and never hated you?”

Draco just stares.

Harry keeps going, building momentum. “You’re forgetting how this started. What if my head goes again, and I can’t talk, and I can’t use my safeword? A week ago I couldn’t even handle vanilla sex with my boyfriend!”

“I didn’t forget. If you ever stop responding, if I have even the slightest suspicion something is wrong, I will check with you. Just like I have been doing.”

Harry nods.

“Once again: we don’t have to do it. We can keep doing what we have been, or you can- you can end it altogether if you want.” Draco clenches his fist, then forces himself to relax it one finger at a time. “As for why I want to do this with you…”

Harry’s heart beats faster, braced for any number of shattering things to come out of Draco’s mouth.

“I think I’d better show you.”

He stands and takes hold of Harry’s wrist, pulling him up. Keeping hold of him, grip not tight but still firm, he leads Harry to the bedroom. His breathing is coming faster, nervous anticipation coursing through him. Draco guides Harry to stand in front of the bed, closing the door behind him, and finally lets go of his arm.

“Do you want to do this, darling? It’s alright if you don’t.”

Harry licks his lips. “I want to.”

Draco’s answering smile is predatory. “Do you remember your safeword?”

“Felix,” he says. “And yours is Mandrake.”

“Very good. Shall we begin?”

Harry nods, almost shaking with adrenaline. He expects him to approach, but instead he goes to Harry’s desk chair, turning it to face the centre of the room before sitting down. Crossing one leg over the over, Draco leans back and folds his arms. He fixes Harry with a penetrating stare.

“Strip.”

Harry swallows, mouth dry, and pulls his top over his head. He holds it for a moment, not sure whether to throw it aside or fold it neatly, not sure what Draco would prefer. Eventually he decides to just let it fall- he’s too eager to continue. Draco’s watching him from across the room, saying nothing, his face unreadable. Unsteady hands move over his flies, fumbling with the button, but he manages to get them down. He slips off his socks, feeling Draco’s gaze burning his neck. His stomach squirms. No one’s asked him to strip for them before, and he knows he’s not being particularly sexy about it. Shimmying out of his underwear, he stands naked in the middle of the room. Harry’s about to beg him to say something, anything, when he finally relents.

“Beautiful,” murmurs Draco.

Harry breathes a sigh of relief tinged with pleasure. Draco stands and moves towards him, but still doesn’t touch. He feels greedy for him, desperate for Draco to kiss him, reassure him. Still, underneath the frustration there is a layer of…something. Maybe he enjoys being teased, or maybe he just knows that Draco enjoys teasing him; he knows he enjoys giving Draco what he wants.

After an age, Draco lightly touches his shoulder, and Harry reaches out for him.

“No,” says Draco, calmly but firmly. “Don’t touch unless I tell you to. Put your hands behind your back, that will make it easier to remember.”

Harry rushes to comply, holding tightly to his own wrists. He can’t believe he’s managed to do something wrong already.

Draco runs his fingers over his torso, so light that it feels like feathers on his skin. “It’s alright, you didn’t know. Let me tell you the rules now, so it doesn’t happen again.”

Harry relaxes. Usually, he’s not one for following rules, but right now the idea is comforting. If Draco tells him what to do, he can do it. He wants to be good for him.

“We’ve already covered the first rule: don’t touch without permission. That includes yourself. Secondly, you’re not to lie. If I ask you a question, I need you to answer it honestly. This is important. Don’t pretend to like something just because you think I want you to.”

He presses his palm flat to Harry’s chest now, and he almost sighs with relief at the contact. Draco’s hand is a point of heat radiating outwards, warming the rest of his body. Draco steps closer, and cranes his head down until their foreheads are almost touching. His silk-fine hair brushes against him, tickling.

“And you’re not to call me Malfoy. If I’m going to have you screaming my name, you’d better call me Draco.” He tilts Harry’s chin up until their lips brush. “Do you understand?”

“Yes, Draco.”

He groans, and crashes his lips against Harry’s like a wave onto the rocks. Draco didn’t say that he couldn’t kiss back, only that he couldn’t touch, so Harry gives as good as he gets. Clutching at his own wrists, he opens his mouth for Draco’s tongue. He licks into Harry’s mouth for just a second, before reaching behind Harry to take his hands and pull them between their chests. Still holding onto him, Draco walks them backwards, pushing him back onto the bed. The mattress bounces when he falls and Harry huffs a laugh. Then he sees the hungry look on Draco’s face. The giddy feeling is quickly overtaken by lust, and the need to give this man whatever he wants.

Draco crawls over him, straddling his hips. Harry wishes he would lay over him, let him feel the solid realness of him. Instead, he gathers Harry’s hands up once again and holds them over his head. Rather than a solid piece of wood, the headboard is made of carved spindles, and clearly Draco spotted an opportunity. With a whispered _incarcerous_ , Draco ties his wrists to it.

Draco squeezes a finger into the gap between the rope and his skin. “How’s that, darling? Not too tight?”

Harry shakes his head.

“Pull on them for me, make sure they won’t break.”

Harry tugs hard, feeling the satisfying stretch of his muscles in his arms and shoulders, his core as he bucks upwards. It brings their chests together, Harry’s naked skin against the soft fabric of Draco’s shirt. As much as he loves Draco’s body, and he has a beautiful one, Harry likes when he’s the only one undressed. He feels exposed, and wanted, like Draco can’t even wait long enough to take his clothes off before he fucks him.

“Very good,” purrs Draco.

The approval moves through his blood like honey as Draco leans down to kiss him. The caress of his tongue on the roof of Harry’s mouth is a sharp contrast to the hands that clamp down on his hips, threatening bruises. Draco grabs his wand and casts the usual spells, nipping and sucking at Harry’s lips all the while. He moves away, tugging at Harry’s bottom lip with his teeth as he goes. His own are shiny with spit, and Harry strains his neck to try and chase him. Draco has no mercy, and only shuffles back, parting Harry’s legs to make room for him to lie between them. Instead of putting his fingers where Harry expects him to, he ducks his head down, bypassing his aching dick to lick his hole.

Harry gasps. It feels like there’s a buzzing under his skin, causing liquid to bead at the tip of his cock. He’s never felt anything like it. Draco’s tongue is almost rough, his skin so sensitive he thinks he might be able to feel the tastebuds. Harry wriggles, overcome with a potent mixture of bliss and embarrassment.

Draco keeps licking, sucking, wriggling his tongue inside. Harry writhes, anchored in place by the rope that’s keeping him stretched out, on display. Fingers join his tongue, and Draco tortures him with them until he’s wet and loose, tears welling in the corners of his eyes. Every now and then he removes his mouth to talk to Harry, to tell him how good he’s being, how sweet he tastes. Harry’s making noise almost constantly now, though nothing that could be considered words.

At long last, Draco moves away. He stands, stripping carelessly, paying no mind to where his expensive clothes fall. His cock sways, looking painfully swollen. He climbs back over Harry, kneeling between his legs, and lifts Harry up by the arse. To take some of the weight off his shoulders Harry wraps his legs around him, locking his heels together at the small of Draco’s back, the muscles in his stomach clenching.

“Look at you,” he coos, as if Harry was a milk-drunk kitten. “I could do anything to you and you’d probably thank me. You’d probably beg for it.”

Harry whimpers, moving his hips to try and get Draco to stop teasing and _fuck him already_. Draco smirks, and lowers them down until he’s stretched out over him, pressing him into the mattress.

“Actually, that’s not a bad idea.” His voice is dirty and dangerous, as he says “Beg for it. Beg me to fuck you.”

Harry whines, and Draco nibbles at his ear. Harry considers refusing, but he’s too far gone to be proud. He needs Draco inside him.

“Please, Draco.”

He feels Draco’s huff of amusement against his cheek. “Please what?”

Harry clenches his thighs, pulling Draco even closer until the head of his dick brushes against his balls. The rope is starting to burn against his wrists, but he only struggles against it more, torn between wanting his hands on Draco and the way the sting heightens his arousal.

“Please, fuck me.”

He hoists Harry’s legs over his shoulders, bending him in half, past the point he thinks his body can physically go. He fucks into Harry in one go, before holding still. Kissing Harry, open mouthed, he catches Draco’s moan with his tongue. He’s buried deep inside, unmoving, and Harry tries to grind back onto him. Draco scrapes his nails up the back of his thighs, against the grain of the dark hair, leaving red lines behind.

Draco barely bothers to stop kissing him as he talks. “How badly do you want it?”

“I want it,” Harry babbles. “I need it. Please Draco, I need you. I need you to fuck me.”

“Good boy.”

Draco wastes no more time. Fucking Harry with an almost religious ecstasy, he looks like a devout man lost in prayer. Harry feels torn apart, like Draco could rip him to pieces and he’d kiss him for it. Draco said this was about control for him, but Harry has never seen him look wilder. His eyes are the colour of ice, of hell frozen over, and he can’t look away.

The god of time sits in the corner, deciding not to bother the pair with petty details like seconds and minutes and hours. Draco’s voice is the anchor tethering him to his body, the sounds becoming more important than the words themselves.

“So perfect, so good for me. You were made for this. Not fighting, not _dying._ You were made to feel this good. I want to make you feel like this all the time.” Draco’s voice is sweet and bitter, like strawberry gin. “You should be this full all the time. Stay inside you all day, all night. I’d just sit there for hours with you on my cock, not moving, just keeping you exactly where you should be.”

Harry throws his head back, imagining it. Fuck, but it’s filthy. Something inside him preens at the idea, of being Draco’s so completely. Draco hasn’t even touched Harry’s cock, but his prostrate is being struck repeatedly, and his orgasm crests and breaks like a wave. He thinks he’s probably saying something, something like _yes, yes, Draco_ but the ringing in his ears is too loud to tell.

Draco follows soon answer, hips losing their rhythm, fingernails carving white crescent moons into his hips. Draco collapses on top of him.

Harry gulps deep breaths of air, Draco’s weight putting pressure on his lungs. “Draco, you’re crushing me.”

“Sorry,” he says, rolling off to lay shoulder to shoulder with Harry.

Harry doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to Draco apologising. A unicorn is probably born each time it happens.

Abruptly, Draco sits up, and taps his wand against the ropes binding Harry’s wrists. They unravel, and Draco massages along Harry’s arms and shoulders before he brings them down, stopping them from cramping. Rubbing a thumb over the red marks, he inspects Harry’s wrists. Satisfied, he flicks his wand and summons two glasses that come zooming in from the kitchen. He fills them with a careless _aguamenti_ and hands one to Harry. Harry shuffles upright so he can drink, rucking up the very top of the sheets with his heels. They’d been kicked off almost entirely during their vigorous…activities. Draco cleans them up while Harry drinks deeply, slowly coming back down to earth.

Draco still seems caught in the afterglow. He’s turned from an unstoppable force to an affectionate housecat, nuzzling into the space between Harry’s chin and shoulder. He starts pressing chaste kisses down Harry’s biceps, before leaning over to kiss across his chest. Moving half on top of him, he scrapes his teeth along Harry’s collarbone, causing Harry to splutter and blindly place his glass on the bedside table.

“You did so well, darling,” he mumbles into Harry’s skin. “I can’t believe you came without me touching you.”

He pets Draco’s head, luxuriating in the feel of those silky strands under his calloused fingertips. Draco kisses a path further down, his hands joining in his exploration. He takes Harry’s nipple into his mouth, so lightly he almost can’t feel it. He does feel it, though.

Harry freezes. He can feel panic setting in. All of a sudden, he needs Draco _off_ him. He can’t breathe, he can’t speak. He shoves roughly at Draco’s shoulder and springs from the bed, clutching at the bedpost for support. He’s breathing faster and faster, so why does it feel like he’s getting no air? Perhaps someone cast a curse to remove all the oxygen from the room.

Shivering like a wet kneazle, he sinks to the floor and curls into a ball. With his head buried in his knees, his arms wrapped around his legs, the world feels a lot smaller. A lot more manageable.

He feels a hand on his back. He leans back into it, the touch that had been so terrifying moments ago now so comforting. Encouraged by his response, arms wrap around him.

“Harry, darling? Can you hear me?”

This is the second time he’s called him by his first name, and both times it was when Harry was being a nutjob. It’s nice. He sort of wishes he’d do it more. Then again, he’s only called him Draco during sex, so they’re probably even.

“I want you to breath with me. In for four, hold for two, out for four.”

Draco starts to count, and he can feel the expanding and contracting of his chest against Harry’s back. He’s counting so slowly it feels like a minute passes between each number, though it must only be a second. Harry tries to follow, the air ripping out of him like paper. Draco strokes up and down his back, slowly, in time with the counting. After about ten repetitions, his breathing evens out.

“I’m sorry, darling.” Draco murmurs into Harry’s hair. “I’m so sorry.”

“S’not your fault,” croaks Harry.

Draco presses a kiss to his temple, his arms tightening around him. He doesn’t talk for a long time, and neither does Harry. They just sit there like that, on the floor, until Harry uncurls a little.

“Feel better?” asks Draco, worry lining his eyes.

“Yeah,” nods Harry. “I’m really sorry.”

Draco gives him a pointed look.

“Fine then,” he says, throwing up his hands. “I’m not sorry I acted like a mad man, and shoved you, and made you sit on the floor for ages. That was all completely normal, I’ve no idea why anyone would be bothered about that!”

Draco pinches the bridge of his nose. “This isn’t the time for that argument, so I’m going to leave that for now. “He scrubs a hand over his face. “Can you tell me what happened?”

What did happen? He was fine one minute, and he’d just been very thoroughly and roughly fucked, but Draco putting his nipple in his mouth sends him running for the hills? It’s not like it’s something that’s been a problem for him before, either. Terran did it a few times. In fact, the last time-

_Large hands moving up from his thighs. Wet heat, suction. He starts to slip away. Eyes fastened to the ceiling, the fleur de lis patten shifting in and out of focus. Time carries on without him. Then, a sharp sensation. Three fingers inside of him, a body on top of him. He looks down. Terran has a nipple in his mouth._

_‘We were finally getting somewhere.’_

He sucks in another sharp breath, and closes his eyes. It doesn’t stop him from seeing it, replaying over and over, like a wizarding photograph. The same movement repeated over and over in a loop.

“It- it was something that happened. Before. You didn’t do anything wrong,” he assures him. No, Draco’s been surprisingly wonderful. About everything.

Draco stands, and lifts him into his arms like a child before placing him carefully back on the bed. He snags the covers from their pile at the foot of the bed and pulls them over Harry, before climbing in next to him.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Harry plucks at a pill in the fabric. “I don’t know why I reacted like that. I didn’t act like that when it happened. It wasn’t even a big deal.”

“I think it was a big deal,” says Draco calmly. “You wouldn’t have had a flashback if it wasn’t.”

Harry scoffs. “That wasn’t a flashback.”

Draco shrugs, obviously not believing him.

Harry bristles. “It wasn’t. All that happened was- what happened was-” He growls in frustration. “I don’t know. I can’t say it right, it sounds worse than it is. Can I just show you?”

“Show me?”

“Yeah. I’ve got a pensieve we can use.” He waves his hand at the cabinet his desk is set into, and two double-fronted doors open. A stone bowl moves out, coming to hover over the desk.

“Are you sure?” checks Draco, his face twisted in curiosity and disbelief.

“Yeah. You need to believe me, and I don’t know how to explain it, so yeah.”

Harry holds his palm out flat, and Draco hands him his wand. The hawthorn wand seems to buzz with recognition. He raises it to his temple, and pulls out a string of silver memory.

“There you go,” he says, handing it back to Draco. “You’ll have to look on your own, I don’t really want to see it again.”

“I imagine not,” says Draco mildly, clearly holding back.

Draco looks down at the memory spooling at the tip of his wand with something like reverence. He clambers off of the bed and pulls on some pants, before striding over to the pensieve. The memory drops into the bowl. Looking back at Harry just once, before turning away, he lowers his head into the swirling liquid.

For about five minutes, Harry watches him bent over the pensieve. He’s vulnerable, unable to watch his back, and Harry realises he’s being trusted to protect him. Not that it’s likely they’ll be attacked in Harry’s bedroom, but he knows nearly everyone who lived through the war still thinks in this way. In terms of strategy, vulnerability, defence.

Harry tries not to think about what Draco’s witnessing. The memory he gave him started with Terran asking him to bed and ends with him leaving. It probably didn’t need to be that long, but without the context Draco might get the wrong idea. He needs to see that it was Harry’s fault, that he wasn’t attacked or assaulted.

Finally, Draco surfaces from the pensieve, gripping the edge of the desk. He doesn’t turn around. The line of his shoulders is tense, his knuckles turning white.

Straining his ears, Harry can still only just hear him muttering to himself. “I’m going to kill him.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warnings:  
> Harry has a flashback to a previous assault.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time for a POV change! This is my first time writing from Draco's perspective, and I really enjoyed it.  
> Thank you for all the lovely comments- they really keep me going.  
> Additional warning in the end notes.

The day his three years living as a muggle were over, Draco Malfoy cast a patronus for the first time. It was a stag. He’d known it would be, of course, but it still wasn’t pleasant to have it confirmed. The memory he’d used was of when Simi had thrown him a surprise birthday party, about a year after they’d moved in together. He hadn’t thought about Potter at all. Still, he hadn’t forgotten him. Part of the reason that he chose the patronus as his first spell was because he’d always been so pissed off that there was yet another thing Potter could do that he couldn’t. So, he’d sat at the end of his single bed in his tiny flat, and watched the stag prance around the room. He had to sit on the bed, because there wasn’t room for anything as superfluous as a chair. Their flat was a bit of a shithole.

Draco hadn’t moved out right away. He was used to living without magic now, and he liked living with Simi. They were the best friend he’d ever had, and paying rent was hard enough with two people. Although, it had been easier to hide that he was a wizard when he didn’t have a wand. Every time the boiler broke, they had to scrape together the money to fix it, because the landlord never got around to it. Then, he would think about how easy it would be to cast a quick _reparo_. But he’d never be able to hide that from Simi. He could say he’d gotten someone to fix it, but they’d want to help him pay, and then he’d be back where he started.

He even kept his job at first- a cashier at Tesco’s. It paid the bills okay, and it was easy enough once everything was explained to him. Sometimes the customers got snotty, but after living with Old Snakeface, a middle-aged woman with an invalid coupon was nothing. But then he’d be stacking shelves, and all he could think about was flicking his wand until they were all in order, labels facing outwards. The final straw was his manager, Tony. He’d always made fun of him for being posh, and he could take that on the chin. He’d speculate about whether Draco was bent, and he was used enough to that. The final straw was when Draco wanted a few days off to help Simi after they’d come out of surgery, and Tony refused, so he just left instead. So, in the end, quitting his job had nothing to do with magic.

Simi’s mother was an odd woman, though well meaning, and she was convinced Simi and Draco were a couple. Several times Simi gave pitch perfect renditions of the speeches their mother gave. _You know, you can tell me if you’re together. We all like Draco, even if he is strange. You don’t have to hide your relationship; I’m used to you being, you know, whatever you are._ Draco was oddly touched. She invited him for Christmas dinner every year, but Draco always refused. He couldn’t see his mother, as she was on house arrest and he couldn’t go anywhere as magical as _his own childhood home_. Still, it felt like a betrayal to spend the day with anyone else, when he knew she’d be alone.

Narcissa’s house arrest ended at the same time Draco’s exile did. The first thing they did together was go house hunting. She’d been trapped in that mausoleum, that place so filled with misery and darkness, and now all she wanted was a stylish modern apartment. The building was popular with young business people, and his mother stuck out like a sore thumb, but she loved it. It was almost as different to the Manor as it was possible to get.

Six months after he had his wand back, Draco moved out. Simi had another friend who was looking for somewhere to live, and he saw the opportunity for what it was. Simi made Draco promise that they would try and see each other at least once a week, and so far he’d managed to keep it.

Draco refused to live in a city, and especially not London. He had access to his vault now, and could afford to be picky. He chose a cottage, a rather twee looking cottage, partly because he thought it was ironic. He could imagine a sweet old witch living there, the sort who gave sweeties to children and knitted jumpers for cats. Still, he liked it, in a weird way. He wanted something different, too.

Draco was twenty-two years old, a real wizard again, and still in love with Harry Potter.

Draco soon discovered something that disturbed him; he was bored. Currently, Draco didn’t have a job so much as a lucrative hobby. He developed cosmetic potions. It had started in fifth year, when he’d modified a bottle of Sleekeazy’s to stop it turning the hair greasy afterwards, and given it to Pansy for her birthday. Pansy had demanded more and more convoluted concoctions ever since, and he’d gotten rather good at it. Then, when Pansy received compliments on her makeup, her hair, her perfume, she naturally sent people his way. All in all, he’d hardly needed to touch the family vaults since he bought the cottage.

He still saw Simi every week, on top of the times they ran into each other at the bar. They tended not to spend too much time together there, not wanting to give the impression of being a couple and hamper their efforts at pulling. Instead, they usually went to the park. It turned out Draco was a little frightened of dogs, which Simi found hilarious. For some reason, the dogs kept coming up to him, jumping up and leaving muddy pawprints on his clean trousers. _Maybe I smell different,_ said Draco, wondering if magic had a scent their sensitive noses could pick up on. Of course, he’d forgotten who he was with. Simi leaned in, sniffed, and nodded. _Yeah, you smell a bit like ham._ They wrestled like schoolkids after that- Draco did not smell like ham, thank you very much. His homemade cologne was legendarily seductive.

In moments like that, he could forget he was bored. He could pretend that his thoughts didn’t stray to messy hair and green eyes. He could pretend he didn’t want to apparate to wherever Potter was and pick a fight with him almost every day, just so that he would look at him again. Maybe even hit him. That would be better, that would mean touching.

He wondered if Potter still thought about him. Probably not. He was probably too busy living his life, being in love with someone he’d actually seen in the last four years. Someone who’d been kind to him, even once. He hoped Potter had someone who was kind to him- he doubts he ever could be.

Draco was twenty-four years old, and he was bored of loving Potter.

When he first heard that Arthur Weasley wanted to start some kind of learning centre to teach wizards more about muggles, he laughed. Wasn’t that the same man who hadn’t known how to dress like one at the Quidditch Cup? But, the more he thought about it, the more he thought it was a good idea. Hogwarts had really not done much to teach their students about the muggle world, and Muggle Studies was elective, not mandatory. Yes, the idea had legs. Although from what he’d heard, funding was an issue.

After imagining the look on his father’s face if he’d lived to see the Malfoy money handed over to a Weasley, for a project like that, his mind was made up. When he realised that the Manor could also be put to use, Draco almost cackled. _Are you proud, Lucius?_ he thought to himself, as he got out a quill and ink.

It was only after Roberta had already carried the letter away, that he remember that the Weasley’s had all but adopted Potter. He sighed. There was no use getting into a tizzy about it, seeing as the Weasley patriarch would probably burn his letter as soon as he got it. Even if he did agree to work with Draco, it’s not like he’d be popping round for tea. There was no reason to believe he’d run into Potter at all.

Draco was twenty-six years old and still in love with Potter, but he hardly noticed anymore.

-

Draco lowers his head into the pensieve, and then he’s falling, falling, falling. He’s only done this once before, when he’d had to submit memories for his trial. It wasn’t something he’d ever wanted to repeat, but the fact that Harry wants him to is enough to sway him. Harry Potter wants _Draco Malfoy_ to see a memory, and likely not one he’d share with just anyone.

He lands on a bedroom floor, the same bedroom he was just in, though of course it doesn’t hurt. He’s not really here.

Watching the scene unfold, Draco wants to vomit a little. To see another man with Potter, with his mouth on him, makes him so jealous it blinds him for a moment. Then he breaths, and looks, and he wants to be sick again. Potter looks so nervous, his fingers twisting in the sheets, his expression unsure. The blonde man moves his mouth off him, says something, and suddenly Draco recognises him. Star Quidditch player Terran Jones, Potter’s ex-boyfriend.

Potter takes off his shirt, and Terran divests him of the rest of his clothes, and Draco can’t help but be distracted a little. Merlin, but he’s beautiful. Draco wants to bite those thighs. The boyfriend starts to suck Potter off again, and then something weird happens. The memory becomes blurry, distorted, and Draco has to squint to make anything out. He can just about see Potter lying on his bed, staring at the ceiling, completely unmoving. Shit. It’s happened, hasn’t it?

He waits for Terran to realise, to back off. The picture is so jumpy it’s hard to tell, but it looks like he does realise after a minute. Draco moves closer, it’s too hard to see what’s going on otherwise. Terran pulls off and Draco sighs in relief, but instead of trying to bring Potter back, he does something that makes Draco see red. He takes off his clothes, casts the preparation spells, and starts to finger him. The bastard is kissing all over Potter’s body, stroking him, fucking him with his fingers. The picture is still lurching and swaying, and he wonders if Potter actually remembers this part at all. Pensieve memories are always more detailed, seeing as they’re retrieved directly from the subconscious.

He knows the second Potter comes back to himself, because it no longer feels like he’s sat in a rowing boat on the middle of a stormy sea. The scene is still, and he can see everything. The unmitigated shitbag still has his fingers inside Potter, and his mouth is on one of his tight brown nipples. Fuck. Fuck. That must be why-

But he’s missed something, the arsehole must have spoken.

“Stop,” says Potter, his voice shaking.

If Draco thought he was angry before, that’s nothing compared to how he feels when Terran says “Why? We were finally getting somewhere.”

Potter pushes Terran off him. “I went off again, I didn’t even know what you were doing.”

“I know,” sighs Terran. “But honestly I think it helps. You were calm, you weren’t flipping out.”

Draco would scream, except he doesn’t know if Potter would hear him back in the present.

“I wasn’t calm, I wasn’t anything!” snaps Potter.

“Look, it’s okay, we can keep going.”

Terran kisses Potter again and pushes him back down on the bed. Potter lets him, and Draco wishes he would shove him off, that he would realise that he doesn’t have to put up with this. When Potter flinches, Draco flinches with him.

The bastard son-of-a-whore lies on top of Harry more fully. Didn’t he feel him flinch? Of course he did, he just cares more about getting his dick wet than the man who loves him.

“No,” says Potter, his voice so small it makes Draco want to wrap him in a blanket and keep him there forever. “It’s not okay, I can’t do it.”

Terran makes sure his displeasure is audible when he says “Fine, we can just do this.”

He lines their cocks up with each other, and strokes them both at once. Potter is almost completely soft now.

“No, not today. We can try again, but just not now.”

The wanker scoffs and hauls himself off the bed, already stepping back into his trousers. Potter looks devastated, tears blurring his green eyes.

Potter tugs at his messy hair, until black curls spring upwards from his head, ignoring gravity. “You can still stay; I just can’t do that tonight.”

 _Oh darling_ , thinks Draco, wishing he could touch him, comfort him. _Oh Harry_.

The prick shakes his head, not even looking back at Potter. “I’m not going to wait forever, and neither is anyone else.” He doesn’t even bother buttoning up his shirt before he strides over to the door, glancing back only to say: “Get your shit together, Harry.”

When Draco comes back to the present he is trembling with rage. He grips the edge of the desk, trying not to show Potter just how affected he is. He mutters under his breath, holding back the tidal wave of abuse he wants to fling at Potter’s ex by the skin of his teeth. That’s not what Potter needs right now. He needs Draco to stay calm.

Draco’s hurt Potter so many times it’s probably hypocritical of him to be so incensed, but he can’t help it. _Calm down_ , he thinks to himself. _This isn’t about you._ He peels his fingers off the desk one at a time, and turns to face Potter. His eyes are wide, anxious, and Draco desperately wants to make him smile again. He walks back over and climbs onto the bed again, pulling Potter into his arms. His words never seem to make anything better, in fact they often make things worse, but he knows how to do this. Draco rests his cheek on top of Potter’s head, stroking a hand through his hair.

“So, you saw it,” says Potter, mumbling into Draco’s collarbone. “Do you believe me now?”

“Believe what?”

Potter moves one shoulder in a slight shrug. “I overreacted.”

Draco’s tempted to shake the insufferable, beautiful idiot until he develops a sense of self-worth, but he manages to stop himself. Restraint is something of a speciality of his, these days. Not that you’d know it, considering he keeps coming back to Potter like a needy Crup. But then, he’s not a saint, and Potter’s always been something of a blind spot.

“You didn’t overreact,” he says, squeezing Potter’s arm.

Potter makes a grunt of disbelief.

What can he say that won’t make Potter leave, like he did the first time? Although, this is Potter’s house. That means the question really is: what can he say that won’t make Potter kick him out? Any sooner than he was planning to, anyway. He won’t kid himself into thinking that Potter would want him to stay.

The night Potter slept in Draco’s bed was simultaneously one of the best and worst of his life. The best, because he had Potter sleeping next to him. He’d curled around his body, heard the noises he made in his sleep. The worst, because it was a stolen moment. Just a teasing facsimile of what he really wanted.

No, he doesn’t know what to say to make things better- but he knows who might.

“Have you told Granger and Weasley about this?” he asks.

“There’s nothing to tell. I flipped out over nothing, as usual.”

“That wasn’t nothing,” he says, gritting his teeth.

He wants to say _that was assault_ , but he knows Potter would react badly, and push him away. As much as Draco wants to stay for his own sake, he also thinks that Potter might need someone right now. He’s just had a pretty major panic attack, or flashback, or whatever it was. If Potter kicked him out, he very much doubts he’d call someone else to help. He’d probably just stew by himself.

Sometimes it frightens Draco how well he knows Potter. If someone ever knew Draco that well, he thinks he’d explode with humiliation. But then, Draco isn’t a good person. If someone knew him like that, they’d be disgusted by what they found. But Merlin, if Potter ever finds out he’s in love with him he might actually die on the spot.

Potter wraps his arms around Draco, and sighs. “Maybe it wasn’t nothing, but it wasn’t enough for me to act like that.”

“There’s no such thing as _enough_ , darling. It either hurts you or it doesn’t.”

Draco keeps stroking his rumpled hair until he falls asleep. He must be exhausted. Potter’s sleeping on top of him, and he uses that as an excuse to stay. If he moved, he’d wake him, and he clearly needs the rest.

When Draco closes his eyes, he sees Terran’s smug bastard face. He drifts off to sweet imaginings of hitting him with every hex and jinx he ever learnt- and his Bellatrix taught him a few.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Draco sees a memory of Harry's assault from chapter one.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We'll be back to Harry's POV next chapter, and then mixing it up from there on. No additional warnings in this one, it's actually a very wholesome chapter.

Draco woke to the sound of beaks tapping on a window and Potter sprawled across his chest. He rubs the sleep out of his eyes and looks in the direction of the noise; four different owls are jostling for position on the windowsill, nipping at each other viciously. Groaning, he shakes Potter’s shoulder.

“Potter, wake up. There’s about a thousand blasted owls trying to peck their way through the glass.”

Harry grumbles and moans, stretching out like a lazy dog, before falling still again. Feeling like a brute, he slides out from under the sleepy Potter and stumbles over to the window. It’s one of those Victorian sash windows, and it screeches with rust as he pushes it up. Three letters are immediately dropped onto the desk, the _Daily Prophet_ landing on top with a foreboding thud. It’s upside down, so he can’t see the headline, but the sheer thickness hints at a scandal.

A particularly pugnacious owl bites his ear.

“Alright, alright,” he huffs. “I’ll find the treats.”

He can’t see any, so he fetches his wand and _accios_ the ones he keeps in his coat pocket. Potter starts to snore, the lucky bastard. The owls surround Draco menacingly, and visions of Buckbeak flash before his eyes as he tries to distribute the Mouse-O’s without being ripped to shreds by talons. Lord, but owls can smell weakness.

Once the birds have left, Draco perches on the edge of the bed. “Potter,” he says, nudging the sleeping body beside him. “Your fan mail has arrived.”

Potter yawns into the pillow, mumbling something inaudible.

“Rise and shine,” he needles. “Another day of hideously wasted fame awaits.”

It’s hard not to think of him as Harry, when he’s squinting up at Draco without his glasses, eyes puffy with sleep. But he set his own rules, years ago, to cope with loving Harry Potter. Avoiding his first name was high on the list; it denotes an intimacy Draco doesn’t deserve.

Potter rolls onto his back, and blinks at him mulishly. “It’s too early.”

Draco casts a quick _tempus_. “It’s nine o’clock, Potter. I know we’re both self-employed but some of us have something called a ‘work ethic’.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he says, waving a hand. “I’m lazy, I’m arrogant, and you hate my hair. I’ve heard it all before. Will you come back to bed now? You’re making me cold just looking at you.”

Now that he’s mentioned it, Draco is a bit chilly. He’s still just in his pants from last night, and the old house hasn’t warmed itself up yet. Guiltily, indulgently, he gets back under the covers.

Draco sighs. “Fine, but only for a bit. I need to forage for Silk Snails today, for a skin solution, and they hate the afternoon sun.”

“You know,” says Potter slowly. “I’m beginning to suspect you’re some kind of…morning person.”

Yes, and Potter’s a night owl, but he already knew that. He watched Granger badger him over breakfast from across the great hall for six years, and he never once looked fully awake.

“Guilty as charged,” he admits. _In more ways than one._

They sit in silence for a while, matching his breathing to Potter’s own measured breaths. Draco slots his fingers into the divots of Potter’s ribs, stewing in joy and self-recrimination. Is this what it would be like? If Potter wanted him for more than sex, if this were a real relationship, would he have this every day? He doesn’t want to break the silence. He doesn’t want to remind Potter who’s holding him, that he doesn’t belong here.

“Malfoy?”

Draco hums in reply.

“You know, a bunch of people from Hogwarts go to the pub every month. Almost all of our year, actually. Not all at once, obviously, but everyone comes from time to time.”

Draco knows this, but he’s not sure why Harry’s telling him.

Potter picks at the duvet cover, pulling at invisible snags. “The next one’s tomorrow. Do you want to come?”

Draco freezes. His mind is split into two halves. On the one hand, wild horses could not drag him into that pub. It’s going to be filled with people who know all the worst things Draco Malfoy’s ever done in his life, and some of those things he did to them personally. He sent letters of formal apology, after his exile was over and he was allowed to use owls again, but he hasn’t faced anyone except Luna in person. Unless you count that whole debacle at the Burrow, but he’s mostly blocked that from his memory out of sheer awkwardness. He knows Luna would spend time with him, but he wouldn’t want to monopolise her, so he’d be sat there like a gooseberry the rest of the time. Although, if Potter’s inviting him, that does imply he’ll acknowledge his existence. But keeping this secret, as he’s sure Potter wants, is hard enough without alcohol in the mix.

On the other hand, Potter is asking him if he wants to spend time with him, in public. It’s not much of a choice in the end.

“Alright, but I better not be the only Slytherin. I almost came out in a rash after Sunday, being surrounded by so many Gryffindors.”

Harry grins. “I don’t know exactly who’s coming, but Zabini’s usually there, and Millie and Hermione are pretty good mates now.”

“I always said Millicent should be in Ravenclaw.” Draco rolls his eyes in fond remembrance. “But then she’d do something suitably evil to me to prove otherwise. It would be good to see her again.”

“Didn’t you stay in touch?”

Draco shrugs. Pansy’s the only one of his old gang he really reconnected with. But then, they’d always been joined at the hip. He tried to push her away, along with everyone else, but she refused to let him. She’s a stubborn bint, and Draco adores her for it. Pansy’s been slogging her way up the _Daily Prophet_ ’s rank for years now, and it’s slow going for someone with her reputation, but she’s finally making headway. That reminds him:

“Do you mind if I borrow your _Prophet_? I never read that drivel if I can help it, but Pansy should have a by-line in this issue and she’ll kill me if I miss it.”

“Go ahead,” says Harry, finally sitting up and putting his glasses on.

Draco swings his legs out of bed and places his feet on the cold floor. He pulls on a shirt but doesn’t bother buttoning it, letting it hang off his shoulders. He pads back over to the desk and picks up the paper. He means to just skim through until he finds Pansy’s piece, something about a new boutique opening in Diagon, but something catches his eye.

Splashed across the front page, in moving black and white, is Terran Jones. And he’s holding someone’s hand.

“Shit,” says Draco, under his breath.

He glances over the headline, confirming his worst fears. The press has found out about the breakup, and the steaming pile of Hippogriff manure has already moved on, it seems. The picture of Jones leans in to kiss the other man’s cheek, before smiling at the camera, and Draco wants to throttle him. And yet a tiny, horrible part of him feels…relieved. If Jones has a new boyfriend, that means he won’t be back to darken Potter’s doorstep any time soon. Potter won’t be subjected to the moron’s inconsiderate fumbling, and Draco might be able to keep whatever _this_ is going a little longer than he thought.

“What’s wrong?”

“I’m sorry, Potter.” Draco scoops up the letters, hopefully they contain words of comfort from people better equipped to deal with this than he, and drops them with the paper onto Potter’s lap. “I know you were hoping to work things out.”

Not that it wasn’t the worst idea in the world- Jones should be tossed into a tiger pit, not welcomed back with open arms- but that doesn’t mean much to Potter right now. He loved him, and that doesn’t just go away overnight. Draco can attest to that.

Potter’s face is blank as he stares down at the photo of his ex and this other man. The new boyfriend is attractive, to be sure, but nothing compared to Potter. His hair is far too well behaved, for a start.

He swallows, and looks up at Draco. “I think- I think I need to be alone, right now.”

Draco gathers his clothes, and leaves.

Wednesday night looms, thrilling and imposing, on the horizon. He’d received a note from Potter, the night before. It read: _We’re meeting at The Huntsman’s Hound at eight, if you still want to come._ Of course he still wants to come, but that doesn’t make him any less anxious. As usual Draco directs this nervous energy into obsessing over what to wear. He needs to give the exact right impression. Obviously they’ve all met before, so first impressions are out the window, but he needs to show he’s changed. He can’t have them thinking he’s the same old tosser he was before. He’s still a tosser, but he’s definitely not the same.

Long sleeves go without saying; he doesn’t even like to have the mark on display around muggles, too stifled by guilt to fabricate answers their innocent questions. He chooses a black shirt with vines embroidered in black thread, almost invisible against the fabric. It’s only standing closer that you can see them. Subtlety and misdirection are tonight’s prime directives.

Draco foregoes his usual waistcoat; he wants to seem at ease, even if he’s feeling the very opposite. He slides a few delicate silver rings onto his fingers, knowing how they catch in the light and draw attention to his hands. Potter likes his hands. Draco’s seen how he stares at them, and he can’t help but want to tease him a little. Maybe it will help distract him from that hideous prick of an ex, if Draco riles him up a bit.

Not that he’s being completely unselfish, of course. There’s still a nagging voice in the back of his head that says if he leaves Potter alone for too long, he’ll find someone else to give him what he needs. He knows it’s not forever, but he wants to cling to what he can get for as long as possible. Draco doesn’t like to dwell on what’ll happen when Potter gets bored- that’s a problem for another day. For now, he’ll just have to make sure he’s never boring.

He apparates into the alley behind the pub twenty minutes late. On time is early, when it comes to social functions. Or so his mother always tells him. The Huntsman’s Hound is busy, a muggle pub with low beamed ceilings and an old-fashioned atmosphere. There are paintings of dogs on every wall, some old and expensive, some new and amateur, and all exceedingly ugly. The one by the entrance looks more like a cow, but if he has to hazard a guess, he’d say it was a beagle.

Judging from the numbers, he’s not the last one to arrive, but he’s not far from it. He can already spot the bright red of Weasley and Ginerva’s hair, Goldstein between them and engaging them in an impassioned debate about Quidditch from the looks of things. Granger has her head bent close to Millicent’s, and Blaise and Longbottom seem equally engrossed. Bones and Patil are at the bar, and Potter looks bored when Draco spots him, sitting opposite Luna as he endures the rambling attentions of Finch-Fletchley. Luna isn’t paying attention either, she seems to be smiling absently as she scans over her classmates. Likely assessing their auras or some such thing.

It’s as her wide eyes sweep the room that she sees Draco, her smile turning from dreamy to sunlit. It always amazes him how someone as kind and lovely as Luna could want to be friends with someone like him, but he supposes that’s just one of her eccentricities. She hunts for imaginary creatures and thinks a former Death Eater is ‘sweet’ and ‘funny’. Waving over-excitedly, she almost knocks Potter’s beer out of his hand. Potter looks up to see her beckoning him over, and Draco obliges, filled with gratitude and relief. Not only has he been welcomed into the fold, but he has an excuse to spend time with Potter without it _looking_ like he’s trying to spend time with Potter. He could kiss Luna, truly.

He winds his way through the busy pub and over to the group, sitting down in the squashy booth next to Luna.

Luna’s voice is soft and floaty as ever when she greets him. “I wondered if I’d see you today, Draco. I dreamt of you last night, you see.”

“Oh?” he says, raising an eyebrow. Out the corner of his eye he can see Potter’s mouth twitching, trying not to smile.

“Yes,” she continues. “You were a little white dragon, and I had to carry you around in a teacup because you kept flying in circles and making yourself dizzy.”

Potter snorts. He doesn’t seem as heartbroken as he did yesterday morning, which is something.

“Well, thank you for that. I wouldn’t want to get…dizzy.”

Finch-Fletchely shakes his head bemusedly. “My dreams are always about sitting exams I haven’t studied for, or my teeth falling out.” He sighs, and sticks his hand out. “Anyway, hullo Malfoy. It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

“Yes, hello,” he says, shaking his hand.

Thank fuck for that. He knew Luna and Harry would have his back, and Granger and the Weasleys weren’t likely to hex him, but he really wasn’t sure of his reception otherwise. Then again, seeing Luna’s obvious approval and Potter’s lack of antagonism must go a long way.

He turns to Potter. “We saw each other more recently, though.”

Potter reddens, nearly choking on his beer.

“At the Burrow, of course.” Draco grins. “Molly Weasley is an excellent cook, I must say.”

Potter lowers his shoulders, his relief written all over him. Good grief, but he’s an open book. If he wants to keep this a secret he needs to acquire some acting skills.

“I’ve always loved Molly’s food, but I find she’s quite reluctant to try new things,” says Luna. “I wanted to give her my recipe for broccoli Battenburg but her face went very strange, and she pretended something was burning.”

Privately, Draco thinks that people don’t give Luna enough credit. She’s more perceptive than people think. He’ll have to be more careful about teasing Potter in front of her. Draco feels his eyes on him, and turns to meet them. They immediately flick away.

Potter clears his throat. “What are you drinking, Malfoy?”

He knows Potter’s just looking for an excuse to escape to the bar, but he’s not one to complain. Who ever thought they’d see the day that Harry Potter bought a Malfoy a drink?

“Whisky, please. Jura if they have it.” Potter raises his eyebrows, and Draco smirks. “Don’t give me that look, Potter; I don’t drink beer and I know you’re loaded.”

He’s certainly paying him handsomely to work on the Manor, though he knows he’s given Arthur a discounted rate. The wages come from the vault he and Arthur set up for the Centre, rather than Draco directly, which helps eliminate some of the awkwardness. It also helps that technically Arthur’s the one who hired him- it would be weird if he was Potter’s employer.

Potter disappears to order his drink, and Finch-Fletchley bustles over to Bones to talk about some inane Ministry business. Potter seems surprisingly normal, if he’s honest, considering yesterday’s events. A small seed of hope begins to sprout in his chest, wondering if Potter doesn’t care for Jones as much as he thought.

Luna looks at him appraisingly, moving a little closer on the bench seat. “You and Harry seem friendly.”

“Do we? We didn’t say much to each other.”

“Perhaps that’s why,” she suggests. “You didn’t insult him once.”

“I’d be mad to start a fight here, when I’m so outnumbered by Gryffindors,” he bluffs.

He’s saved from further interrogation by Millicent and Blaise, who sit down in Potter and Finch-Fletchley’s vacant chairs.

“So,” says Blaise with a white-toothed grin. “The snakes ride again.”

Millicent rolls her eyes. “Snakes don’t ride, we slither.”

“I don’t know,” says Blaise. “I’ve been known to ride when the occasion calls for it.”

“You’re disgusting,” says Millicent, deadpan.

Merlin, Draco hadn’t realised how much he’d missed these two.

Luna smiles, and stands. “I’ll leave you to catch up. I have a feeling this seat will be needed soon, given that swarm of nargles at the bar.”

She drifts away like a wisp of cloud on the breeze, and Draco turns his attention to the Slytherins.

“Blaise, Millicent. It’s good to see you.”

“Don’t call me Millicent, Draco. No one calls me Millicent anymore.”

“What am I?” asks Blaise. “Chopped liver?”

“I’ll chop your liver in a minute.”

Blaise gives Draco a conspiratorial look. “It’s all part of her new thing. It’s like she thinks if we all call her Millie, everyone will think that Millicent Bullstrode from school was some other girl, who never put Hermione Granger in a headlock.”

Millicent looks as if she’s plotting deadly revenge, and if he didn’t know how much genuine comradery and affection there was between them, he’d be concerned for Blaise’s welfare.

“I hear you and Granger are friends now,” he says, rescuing Blaise.

“Yes, it turns out we have quite a lot in common, actually. We were the only ones doing arithmancy in eighth year, so we worked together a lot.”

Blaise fakes a cough. “Swot.”

Millicent kicks him under the table.

“So, who invited you anyway?” she asks. “Not that we’re not glad you’re here, but…”

Before he can come up with an acceptable answer, Potter appears at the table, clutching a glass of whisky and a too-full pint of beer to his chest. He places the whisky in front of Draco, and looks around the room. The only free space is next to Draco on the bench seat.

“Shove up then, Malfoy.”

Potter drops in beside him before he has a much of a chance to ‘shove up’, shoulders pressing together and their calves bumping under the table. Draco holds his glass out to clink against Potter’s and takes a slow sip. It’s sweet and smoky on his tongue, and he hums in approval.

“Why anyone would drink Firewhisky when the muggle stuff’s on offer, I don’t know,” he says.

“Really?” asks Potter. “I always thought the smoke coming out of your ears was fun.”

He shakes his head. “It burns.”

“So?”

“You’re a glutton for punishment,” he says wryly.

Potter’s eyes dart away, and he starts to fiddle with his beermat.

“So,” says Blaise. “What was it like? Living as muggle, I mean.”

Millicent elbows him in the side. “Blaise,” she hisses.

“I don’t mind talking about it,” he says. “It was good. Hard, obviously, but good.”

Potter tilts his head, paying close attention.

Millicent leans further forward. “You didn’t have to obliviate someone every five minutes, then? No offence, Draco, but you’re terrible at blending in.”

“I said I was raised in a cult, which is true, I suppose. Most of the unusual things I said could be explained away like that.”

He steadily drinks his whisky, answering questions. Potter doesn’t join in, but he doesn’t move away either. Draco knows he’s listening, tracking every micro-expression out of the corner of his eye. Potter’s drinking fast. It’s only beer, and only his second, but if he keeps going at this rate he’ll be bladdered by the end of the night. It looks like he is still broken up about what he saw in the paper, and he’s trying to drink it away. He presses his thigh more firmly into Potter’s, feeling the heat of him. Reminding him he’s there.

Eventually, Millicent sighs. “I’d better be off; I’ve got work tomorrow. Why we do this on Wednesday nights I’ll never know.”

“It’s only nine,” whines Blaise.

“Yes, and I’ve got to be up at four in the morning to get a portkey to Hawaii.”

“Hawaii?” echoes Potter, the first time he’s spoken in a while.

“No chance for sun bathing, I’m afraid. I’ll be in the observatory the whole time with my face shoved in a telescope.”

Millicent kisses Draco on the cheek, slaps Blaise a little too hard on the back, nods to Potter, and makes her way round the rest of the pub to say her goodbyes. At that point, Blaise spots Goldstein on the way to the bar, his eyes lingering on his (admittedly firm) behind. He buggers off to flirt with him or bother him, depending on your point of view, leaving Draco and Potter alone. They barely have time to look at each other, Potter drawing a breath to speak, when Granger and the Ginerva claim the empty seats.

His glass is empty now, and so is Potter’s, so he has a perfect excuse to run away.

“What’s everyone having?” he asks, standing up. “I think it’s my round.”

The girls look at him in surprise.

“Er, I’ll have a glass of the house white, please,” says Hermione, her eyebrows raising almost to her hairline.

Ginerva shrugs her shoulders, recovering from her shock almost instantly. “I’ll have a cider thanks, Malfoy. Whatever’s on tap.”

“Um, a Spitfire please,” requests Potter.

“One house white, one cider, one Spitfire. Got it.”

“Wait!” starts Hermione. “You do have muggle money, don’t you?”

Draco rolls his eyes and takes a muggle debit card out of his wallet. Honestly, it’s kind of amusing how people assume he still knows nothing about muggles.

“I think I’ll manage, Granger.”

He walks away but he still catches Potter laughing, the beginnings of a hissed conversation.

“I can’t believe I forgot!” hisses Granger.

“I bet even you don’t have one of those,” says Ginerva, just as he moves out of earshot.

The queue for the bar is crowded, the pub is getting noisier and he’s pressed in by bodies. Draco gets the drinks, and the night continues in much the same way. A rotating cast of classmates and drinks, Potter a regular presence by his side. Once he overhears a drunken Weasley loudly questioning his presence, but Granger hushes him quickly. Longbottom is definitely avoiding him, but he can’t blame him for that, he truly was horrible to him at school. Still, no one hexes him or even glares at him, so he counts that as a win. Time truly is a marvellous thing, when it comes to old wounds.

At one point in the night, he starts ordering sugary cocktails for him and Potter. Draco’s reasons are threefold. One, they taste fucking fantastic. Two, Potter’s face when he sets them in front of him is priceless. Three, he gets to watch Potter’s mouth wrapped around a straw. He knows he’s getting less and less subtle as the night wears on, and Potter’s own subtlety was wearing thin to start with. They’re both drunk, but so is nearly everyone else.

Apparently Blaise is the Designated Disapparater, because he’s nursing a coke with a bewildered expression, eyes going back and forth between him and Potter.

“Harry,” he says, brows furrowed. “Did _you_ invite Draco?”

“What? Zabini! We thought you invited him!” says Weasley, listing into Granger’s side.

Potter slurps at his bright blue drink that tastes sort of like lemons, sort of like mouthwash. Draco knows, because he’s got the exact same concoction.

“Yeah, I did,” slurs Potter.

“When’d you do that?” asks Granger, her normally clipped voice blurring at the edges a little. “It wasn’t on Sunday.”

She’s still sharp it seems.

“Yesterday,” says Draco. “When he was working on the Manor.”

Granger frowns. “But Harry didn’t go in yesterday, he came over to ours after he saw the paper.”

Shit. He’s put his foot in it now.

“Um,” says Harry.

“Well,” says Draco.

Granger gasps, and points at Draco. “It’s you!”

“What’s me?”

Potter thumps his head down onto the sticky table and leaves it there.

“What’s him?” wonders Weasley.

“Right,” says Draco, standing abruptly. “It’s been a pleasure. I’ll see you all soon, though some sooner than others.” He’s rambling now, but he can’t seem to stop. “Au revoir, à bientôt and all that.”

He starts to stumble out of the pub, but Blaise grabs his arm. “Wait, I need to get you home, old chap. You’re too drunk to apparate, you’ll splinch yourself.”

They make their way out of the pub, feeling Granger’s keen eyes on him. He looks back, and Potter’s head is still on the table. He’s going to have a beast of a hangover tomorrow, and it’s mostly Draco’s fault. Also, Potter’s friends have found out he’s fucking a Death Eater, and that’s his fault, too. Merlin, but Draco’s a bastard. He can never do anything right. He could never be what Potter needs. What was he thinking, coming here? He was thinking of himself, as usual.

Back in the alley, Blaise steady’s his shoulders. “Alright there, Draco? What was all that about?”

“I’m a terrible person,” he moans.

“I wouldn’t say that, old chap. Tell me what you’ve done and we’ll figure it out.”

Draco drops his head onto Blaise’s shoulder. “I fucked Harry Potter. A lot. Repeatedly. In very kinky ways.”

He can feel a small shake starting underneath him, growing until Blaise is roaring with laughter. He pushes Draco off him and wipes a tear from his eye. “Only you, Draco. Only you could feel bad about that.”

Blaise takes him home and tips him into bed, placing a hangover potion on his bedside table. He swears he even feels Blaise pat his head before he goes, still mumbling to himself.

“Merlin’s balls, Draco. Crying over shagging Harry sodding Potter.”

Harry sodding Potter, indeed.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You could probably use this fic to psychoanalyze me, if I'm honest. Having said that, I really hope someone other than just me find this sexy. I'm very new to writing explicit scenes, let alone BDSM, so let me know what you think!

“Harry, please. Tell me it’s not true.”

Harry shakes his head, looking down at the sticky pub table. “I can’t do that, Ron.”

“Oh god,” moans Ron, hiding his face in his hands. “I should have known something like this would happen. We’ve not been spending enough time together, I practically drove you into his arms.”

Hermione clears her throat. “Ronald, do you remember me? I’m your wife, Hermione- the one you’re actually married to.”

They’re all pretty drunk, but Ron’s definitely the worst for wear. If Harry’s not mistaken, there might actually be tears escaping from behind his fingers.

“Hermione, I love you. You’re my beautiful, genius, phemom- phenonimal-” Ron mouths the word to himself for a moment, but still can’t figure it out. He shrugs. “But you don’t understand; Harry _can’t_ have sex with Malfoy.”

“I didn’t think I could have sex with anyone, but apparently I can with him,” Harry points out.

“That makes no sense.” All the blood drains from Ron’s face. “Wait a minute! I know what’s happened. He’s given you a love potion.”

“What? No, he hasn’t!”

“Or a lust potion, then. Or he’s cursed you, or he’s blackmailing you, or something.”

“He hasn’t done that either,” hisses Harry.

Ron turns to Hermione. “He could have though, couldn’t he? He poisoned me once, he _imperius_ ed Madam Rosmerta. It’s the only explanation.”

“It’s not the only explanation,” says Hermione. “It’s just the only one you want to hear.”

“Harry, you might not realise it, but he’s done something to you. Don’t worry, though, I’ll sort it out.” Ron stands, a little wobbly on his feet. “Where does he live?”

“Sit down, Ron. You’re not going anywhere,” says Hermione.

Ron collapses back into his chair as if he’s a puppet whose strings have been cut.

Harry sighs. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I was going to, I was just worried about your reaction.”

“Clearly you were right to be worried,” says Hermione, glaring at Ron. “Anyway, it’s your business, and you’re not obligated to tell us everything. That being said, I hope you know you can always talk to me about anything.”

“I know, ‘Mione.”

“Do you really like him?” asks Ron, his voice small.

Before he can even contemplate the answer to that question, Zabini drops down into the seat next to him. He’d left briefly to take Draco home, and Harry takes a moment to wonder if he’s alright. Draco had seemed unusually ruffled when he’d left.

“So,” says Zabini, with a sly grin on his handsome face. “I hear you’re having kinky sex with Draco.”

“Kinky?” squeaks Ron. “No one said anything about _kinky_.”

Harry’s face goes red.

“That’s none of your business,” says Hermione.

“Draco’s my friend, so it’s as much my business as it is your two’s.”

“I thought you didn’t keep in touch,” says Harry.

“Well…” says Zabini, shifting guiltily. “I haven’t always been a very _good_ friend, but I’m going to change that.”

Harry nods. “Good. He missed you and Millie.”

Hermione looks at him, her expression inscrutable.

“Did he tell you that?” asks Zabini.

“Not exactly, but I think he’s more comfortable talking about other people’s feelings than his own, you know?”

“Not really,” says Zabini. “He was always very melodramatic at school, and just now he was practically blubbering all over me.”

Ron clears his throat. “I know we’re talking about Malfoy’s… feelings, or whatever, but I think we skipped over something pretty bloody massive.”

Harry swallows, wishing he had more beer to wet his dry mouth.

“Oh, the kinky bit?” says Zabini innocently. “Well, with all that pent-up tension between them I can’t really imagine them making sweet, tender love, can you?”

Ron retches, and he’s likely only half faking it.

It’s probably only because Harry’s drunk that he says: “He’s actually a lot more, er... tender, than I thought he’d be.”

“Really?” says Hermione, gently surprised.

“Please don’t encourage this, ‘Mione. I don’t want to hear it,” moans Ron.

Harry ignores him. “Not all the time, but yeah.”

Hermione hums, and Harry recognises her expression as the one she gets when a theory is percolating in her head.

“I suppose I shouldn’t be so surprised,” says Zabini. “He did seem very emotional about it all.”

“In what way,” says Hermione, keeping her voice bland so she doesn’t alarm her victim with her interrogation. What she fails to take into account however, is that not only is Zabini sober, but he’s also a Slytherin. He’s seen all these tricks before.

Zabini narrows his eyes. “I’ve said enough. Ask him yourselves if you want to know.”

“Maybe I will,” says Ron, darkly. “Maybe I will.”

-

The next day Draco knocks back a hangover potion and floos to Malfoy Manor. He can’t afford to laze about in bed feeling sorry for himself, as much as he wants to. After last night, he needs to assess the damage. Granger finding out is a disaster. Maybe Potter will be too ashamed of Draco to continue, or maybe he’ll be too bull-headed to care what they think. For once, he crosses his fingers and hopes Potter’s Gryffindor tendencies win out.

Draco finds him in the library. It’s mostly undamaged, but the ladder that allows access to the higher shelves has taken to zipping away from humans like a feral cat, refusing to let anyone use it. It seems even the furniture was traumatised by the Manor’s former occupants. Potter is sitting cross-legged on the floor, talking to it. Draco stays quiet, watching. He can’t hear what he’s saying, his voice is too soft, but he’s clearly trying to reassure it. The ladder trembles, then slides an inch or two closer. Potter picks something up and holds it out, as if trying to show it to the eyeless piece of furniture. Wood polish.

Draco snorts. “You know, if you feel like polishing some wood, I’m sure I’d appreciate it more than the ladder.”

The ladder in question rattles at the brash sound of his voice, then zooms off along the shelves to the other end of the room.

“Malfoy,” huffs Potter in exasperation, craning his neck round to look at Draco. “Was that really necessary?”

“Come on Potter, how was I supposed to resist?”

He doesn’t get up from where he’s sitting on the hardwood floor, so Draco walks over to stand in front of him.

Potter folds his arms, looking unimpressed. “It took me ages to get it to trust me that much, and now I’ll probably have to start all over again.”

“Sorry,” he says, holding his hand out.

Potter shrugs and uncrosses his arms, taking Draco’s hand and letting himself be pulled upright. “It’s okay.”

Up close, he can see the flecks of blue and gold in Potter’s green eyes. It’s like looking up through a canopy of trees in summer. Draco starts to worry his lovesickness is showing on his face, so he says something glib as a distraction.

“You know, if there’s one thing I regret not doing at Hogwarts, it’s that I never pushed you up against a library shelf and had my wicked way with you.”

“That’s the one thing?”

He tips his head forward so the tips of their noses just touch. “Generally, I regret the things I actually did, not the ones I didn’t do.”

Draco’s glad he didn’t murder Dumbledore. He’s glad he didn’t identify Potter and his friends at the Manor. He’s glad he didn’t kill anyone at all, in the end. He has plenty of regrets as it is, he doesn’t need to add more by worrying over what he could have done. Still, he wasn’t lying about pushing Potter against a shelf. When he was at Hogwarts, studying in the library, his eyes would drift over to the rows of shelves near the back, where couples would slink away to kiss. He’d tried to imagine kissing imaginary, faceless boys, but they all turned into Potter.

“Go on, then,” murmurs Potter, and it takes a moment for him to remember what he’s referring to.

Then it clicks, and he walks Potter backwards into the wall of books. Crushing him into the shelving, the wood must be digging into Potter’s back, but his gasp doesn’t sound pained. He leans into him, letting him feel his weight, and Draco wonders if Potter can feel how hard his heart is beating where their chests are pressed together. Stood together like this, Draco can really take advantage of the height difference between them. It’s not dramatic, only a few inches, but enough that he can give the impression of looking down on Potter. What was that silly thing he’d said? That he wanted to ‘have his wicked way with him’? Well, he certainly feels wicked now.

His eyes drift down to the curve of Potter’s mouth, just as the pink of tip of his tongue pokes out to wet them. Draco rushes forwards and kisses Potter with a lack of finesse that would embarrass him if he wasn’t so lost in the softness of those lips. The bottom one, in particular, vexes him like nothing else. He nips and sucks and nibbles on it, wanting to turn it red, wanting to make it _bleed_. He won’t, though. They haven’t discussed what they’re doing right now; this isn’t a scene. He might want to destroy Potter in a perverted mirror of the way he’s destroyed Draco, body and soul, but he doesn’t have permission for that. Yet.

Although, that doesn’t mean he can’t play with him a little.

“Get on your knees for me, darling.”

He can’t quite hear Potter’s sharp, silent gasp, but he can feel his lungs moving against him. Lord, he wants to be this close to him for the rest of his days. He wants to be closer. He wants to be inside him.

Potter’s eyes flick to the door, and he takes the holly wand out of his jeans pocket, casting locking and silencing charms. Then he bites the lip that’s been plaguing Draco so thoroughly, and casts a protection spell over Draco. It’s the first time he’s been the one to do it, and his magic is warm when it washes over his skin, bringing his prick from half-hard to aching almost instantly. Potter pockets his wand again, and gets gracelessly to his knees. His ungainliness only makes him seem younger, less experienced, reminding Draco he’s the only one who’s had him like this. He wants to keep it that way for as long as possible.

Draco slides his hand up Potter’s neck, enjoying the line it makes, the vulnerable softness under his chin. He’s at Draco’s mercy, and this time it’s by choice. Then he undoes Draco’s trousers, and he remembers that he’s at Potter’s mercy, too.

Potter’s mouth is hell. It would be simpler to say it was heaven, but it wouldn’t be true, because this is torture. Not because he’s bad at it- he’s not. Unpractised, but definitely not bad. Potter’s tongue is curious, moving against him. The roof of his mouth is like satin over stone, hard and silky when the head of his cock slides against it. His lips are generous, shiny with spit. Occasionally there is the slight scrape of teeth, but Potter corrects himself swiftly, applying apologetic little licks and kisses to the area. This can’t be heaven, because it’s too good to be true. Any moment now it’s going to be snatched away, and then he’ll have to spend eternity knowing exactly what he’s missing. And it _will_ be taken away. Maybe not right now, maybe not for a while, but he knows this can’t last forever. Potter will find someone else, someone nice, someone good for him. Not only will he give them this, he’ll give them his heart too.

Draco fists Potter’s terrible, wonderful hair. If he can’t have Potter’s love, he’ll take everything else he can get. He starts to move his hips a little. Potter can’t take him in that far yet, so he’s not really fucking his face, but just the thought of it makes him burn. On his knees, eyes closed and lashes casting shadows on his cheeks, he looks like a painting. He’s art. Draco wants to defile him.

“What a picture you make,” he says, rocking in and out of Potter’s mouth.

Potter opens his eyes, staring up at Draco and moaning so that he can feel it.

“I could sell this memory on Knockturn Alley and die a rich man, if I wasn’t one already.”

Draco could, as well. There are hundreds who would kill to even see this, let alone be in his place. Not that he would ever do it. Obviously, he doesn’t need the money, but even if he did, he would never betray him like that.

He rubs at the seal of his lips where they’re wrapped around Draco’s prick. “I want everyone to see what a whore you are for me.”

Potter whines, and presses the heel of his palm against his crotch. It seems he likes that idea. Draco wonders about some of the things he’s said before. They seemed to get a good reaction, but he wants to test it again.

“But you know what I really want? I want your mouth, your arse, on my cock for hours. Not moving, just waiting, keeping me warm until I decide to use you.”

It’s true that he wants to use Potter, wants to own him like that, but it’s not the whole truth. He also just wants it to last, wants to drag it out. Every moment he has Potter he’s counting down the seconds until he leaves again. If he can keep him in limbo that way, like a stasis charm, Draco could fool himself into believing it’s forever.

Potter takes him further down, the head pushing at the entrance to his throat. He presses his palm harder on his own dick, not rubbing, as if he’s trying to stop himself from coming too soon. He suckles and swallows around him, deep as he can go, the movements back and forth becoming shallower.

“Would you like that, darling? To be a good boy and sit patiently on my cock?”

He makes a small, desperate noise, and Draco grips his hair harder in reply. He’s spent years of his life imagining the texture of Potter’s hair under his hands, but he never thought he’d get to have it. Now he has that and so much more. It’s still not enough.

He’s close now, and he cups the back of Potter’s head to keep him still. Draco’s looking into Potter’s eyes as he comes, and it’s more honest, more intimate, than he intends it to be. The more time he spends with Potter the more he expects him to point his finger accusingly and shout ‘You’re in love with me!’. Anyone who wasn’t such a sweet little idiot with no self-esteem would have worked it out already.

Potter sucks on the head for a last, long second, as if he doesn’t want to stop. Draco hauls him to his feet and back against the books, shoving his thigh between his legs. His jeans are still done up, trapping his erection under tight denim, and it must be killing him. He grabs Potter’s hips, moving them to rub up against him.

“Come on, darling, it’s your turn now. Show me how much you want to come.”

Potter whines and buries his fingers in Draco’s hair, pulling tight enough that he can feel the sting of it.

“Rut against me,” he whispers. “Show me how desperate you are.”

Potter, saint that he is, obliges. Grinding himself against Draco’s thigh like a teenager, his breath hot and damp. Draco kisses his neck, letting him feel the sharpness of his teeth before he sucks a rose-shaped bruise into the skin. Potter guides his chin up, and kisses him forcefully, shamelessly. It’s only when he feels the wet spot through the fabric that he realises that Potter’s finished just like that, making his trousers filthy.

“Fuck,” says Potter, voice scratchy. “Is it always like this?”

“What do you mean?”

Potter’s chest is heaving, breathless. “Is sex always this good? Or do you get used to it, after a while.”

They’re still leaning together, the wall the only thing holding them upright.

“Sometimes it gets better,” he says. “When you really know what you like, what you’re doing.”

Potter clears his throat. “You know, speaking of what you like. Do you, um. Do you want to actually do that thing you said?”

He’s not sure if Potter’s asking because he thinks the idea is so abhorrent that he’ll run the other way yelling if he finds out Draco wants it as something more than dirty talk, or if it’s something he’s interested in. Draco prays to whoever’s listening that it’s the second one. He pulls back a bit, so he can gauge Potter’s expression.

“Which thing?”

He ducks his head, somehow embarrassed despite just having had Draco’s cock in his mouth. “Don’t make me say it.”

“I might have to, seeing as I talked about more than one thing.”

Potter looks at him beseechingly.

“Fine,” he says, sliding his thumbs under Potter’s t-shirt to stroke his waist. “Was it the part where I implied I wanted an audience, or the part where I suggested you warm my cock.”

“The second one,” admits Potter.

“I meant it.” He cradles Potter’s face, encouraging him to meet his eyes. “Is that something you want?”

“It sounds- it sounds good. I want it. I don’t know why, but I do.”

Draco has a few ideas why it might appeal to someone with his particular issues, but this isn’t the time for armchair psychology.

Draco smiles. “Then we’ll do it.”

“When?”

“Whenever you want,” says Draco. Whatever he’s doing, he can cancel it.

“What about tonight?” Potter looks sheepish, as if he’s asking for too much. “I’m at Ron and Hermione’s tomorrow, and if we wait much longer, I’ll go mad thinking about it.”

Merlin, what has he done to deserve this?

Draco nods. “Tonight, then. Come to mine at seven o’clock, and don’t be late. We’ll need the whole evening.”

-

Harry suspects he might be a bit of a freak. Not that he judges Draco for his desires, or anyone else for that matter, but the suspicion is there all the same. That’s what the Dursley’s called him. Freak. Sometimes the niggling voice in his head sounds a bit like Petunia. When things are really bad, he can hear Vernon shouting, see the vein jumping in his face. He can imagine the horror and disgust on their faces just at the thought of Harry sleeping with a man, let alone anything else.

He knows they’d be wrong. He knows they were ignorant bigots. Harry still hears them anyway.

As for what Draco suggested, what Harry _asked_ him for, well. It excites and unnerves him in equal measure. He doesn’t know why, but the idea of it sparked something in him. Harry can hardly bear to name it, even in his own head, so how is he supposed to do it? He pictures it now, and shivers.

God, he is a freak. Why would someone want to be treated like that? Why couldn’t he have vanilla sex with his boyfriend but he can have kinky, twisted sex with his childhood nemesis? Is he so fucked up that he can’t have normal sex? Then again, the sex he had with Draco was pretty normal in the beginning. Obviously the dirty talk did more to him that it might have to another, more well-adjusted person, but it wasn’t so far out of the ordinary. So, he _can_ have non-kinky sex and enjoy it. A lot. But he still wants Draco to use him like he owns him.

Harry’s not scared but he is nervous, and a little ashamed. He’s still going to do it- he wants it too much.

This time he floos to Draco’s house, rather than apparating. He’s expecting him, so he doubts he’ll mind. It’s just that if he has to make himself knock on the front door, he’ll probably talk himself out of it and run away. He topples out the fireplace and into Draco’s living room, only just gaining his balance at the last second. His host is sat on a large wingback armchair, one long leg crossed primly over the other, reading a book.

Draco snorts. “How you ever managed to stay on your broom, I don’t know.”

“I didn’t always. Feels like I nearly fell to my death every other match.”

He raises one eyebrow and taps his nails on the cover, and Harry see he’s painted them an understated peach colour. Harry doesn’t know any other men who paint their nails, and it manages to be unbelievably elegant, ballsy, and sexy all at once. A lot like Draco himself.

Draco uncrosses his legs, marks his place with a slip of paper that looks like a list of potions ingredients, and balances his book on the arm of the chair. “Come here, then.”

Harry slides out of his trainers and walks towards him. There’s nowhere for him to sit, so he hovers in front of him, unsure if Draco wants his to stand, or kneel, or sit in his lap.

“Sit down,” says Draco gently, pulling him down to sit on his knees. Not straddling, but with his back half against the armrest and half against Draco’s chest, legs draping across him.

Harry sinks further into him, feeling cradled and finally relaxed. His anxieties about what they plan to do don’t disappear, but they grow distant and unimportant. He’s not listening to them anymore; he’s much more interested in what Draco has to say.

“We’ve been going so fast,” says Draco. “I don’t want to throw you into the deep end.”

“You’re not. I asked for this, remember?”

Draco’s smile is smug. “Yes, you did, didn’t you?”

Draco strokes his hair. He might claim to hate his rat’s nest but Harry’s starting to think that’s not the case. He’s always playing with it, running his fingers through it, petting Harry’s head like a soft little pet. Not that he’s complaining. He loves the feeling of Draco’s hands in his hair, whether he’s caressing it as he is now, or pulling until it hurts.

“Still, tonight it about patience. It won’t kill us to take things slowly,” says Draco.

“It might,” he grumbles.

Draco laughs, wrapping his arms more firmly around him and squeezing. “Do remember the safewords?”

“Yes.”

“The rules are a little different today,” he says. “The first one is the same. Keep your hands where I put them; don’t touch yourself unless I tell you to.”

Harry nods.

“Today I want you to be silent. Once we begin, you’re not to talk unless you need to use your safeword, I ask you a question, or something is wrong. I’ll be checking in with you to make sure you’re still with me, but I’ll need you to be quiet for what I have in mind. Is that alright?”

“Yes, Draco.”

Draco’s smile is a little wicked. “I know last time I asked you to call me Draco, but I don’t think that’s quite right for what we’re going to do. You can say no to this and I won’t be angry, but when I ask you a question, I’d like you to call me sir.”

The only people he’s ever called ‘sir’ are professors, ministers. Uncle Vernon. It speaks of authority, and despite his general bravery, a little bit of fear. He’s not scared of Draco, and he certainly has no sexual feelings about his uncle, so he’s not worried about that. But the idea of giving Draco that authority turns him on. He wants Draco to have power over him. Even more so, he wants him to abuse that power.

Harry licks his lips. “Yes, sir.”

“Good boy,” purrs Draco, and he’s not smiling- he’s baring his teeth. He grasps Harry’s hands and winds them round the back of his neck. “Can you keep them there for me, darling?”

He just nods, his eyes glued to Draco’s mouth.

“Then if you’re ready, we’ll begin. Are you ready for me?” asks Draco, cocking his head.

_Never_ , thinks Harry, but that’s not what he says. “Yes, sir.”

Draco’s kisses are slow and languid, as if he has all the time in the world. They stay in that same position, Harry nestled in his lap, just kissing, for a long time. Harry starts to move a little, grinding against the hardness underneath him, but his position gives him little leverage.

Draco breaks the kiss with an amused huff. “Patience, darling.”

He tries to stifle a whine in the back of his throat and doesn’t quite succeed, so he muffles it in Draco’s mouth instead. Draco palms Harry’s crotch, rubbing back and forth, and he can’t help but buck into the pressure.

“Does that feel nice, darling?” His voice is dark and dirty, like smoke.

Harry’s breath hitches.

“That’s a shame, because it’s the last time I’m touching you tonight. You’re here for my pleasure, not yours. You’re here for me to use, isn’t that right?”

“Yes, yes,” he pants.

He takes his hand away from Harry’s tented jeans and grips Harry’s chin tightly. “‘Yes’ what?”

“Yes, _sir_ ,” he says. Petulant, yet still so desperate to please.

“That’s better.”

Draco unlocks Harry’s hands from behind his neck so he can tug his t-shirt over his head. He rubs his hands up and down Harry’s chest, his eyes a physical weight. Harry notices that he’s avoiding paying too much attention to Harry’s nipples, and he realises that he’s probably worried about setting him off on another panic attack. On the one hand, he’s grateful for the consideration. On the other hand, he wishes he wasn’t such a headcase- that Draco didn’t need to be careful with him.

Draco manoeuvres him off his lap so he can systematically strip Harry of his clothes, before pulling him back down to straddle him. His naked dick is trapped against Draco’s fancy clothes, and the thought of it being neglected while Draco does what he likes with him makes him squirm in humiliated pleasure. His hands are once again wrapped around Draco’s neck, and he knows he has to keep them there. Harry tries to steal a kiss, but Draco pulls him back by his hair.

Harry wants to whine at being denied, being teased, but he knows he’s supposed to be quiet. He wants to be good. He can be good.

“You’re so desperate for me, aren’t you? What a needy little slut.” Draco strokes a finger down his spine, his crease, over his hole. “Don’t worry, darling. I know what you need.”

Draco slips his wand out from where he keeps it secured with a charm inside his sleeve, casting the necessary spells. He doesn’t cast the one for lube yet though, instead tapping two fingers over Harry’s lips, the pretty peach nail varnish glinting in the light.

“Suck my fingers like you sucked my cock this morning. Get them nice and wet for me.”

Harry obeys, laving the fingers with his tongue, sucking them in deeper until they hit his tonsils. He’s too enthusiastic to be careful, and he chokes slightly.

Draco laughs. “Look at you, you’re literally gagging for it.”

Flushing red, Harry pulls back a little, suckling at the fingers like he used to suck his thumb as a child.

“Oh darling, it’s alright, don’t be embarrassed,” coos Draco. “I like how greedy you are for me.”

Harry goes practically boneless, still nursing the fingers in his mouth. Draco takes them out, ignoring Harry’s small noise of protest, and taps them against his hole. He jolts at the sudden sensation, dick rubbing against Draco’s clothed stomach. A wet index finger rubs at his rim, before dipping ever so slightly inside. Draco scrapes Harry’s neck with his teeth as he pushes in to the first knuckle.

“Do you have any idea how good you feel? So warm, so tight. So perfect for me.”

The other finger joins the first, still only up to the knuckle. It doesn’t hurt yet, but Harry knows they’ll need more than spit to prepare him properly.

Draco crooks his fingers, stroking inside him. “You’ll probably come if I get you ready for my cock like this. We can’t have that, can we?”

He removes his fingers, and Harry almost wants to cry at the loss. Draco whispers the same spell he’d used when he’d ridden him before, the one that leaves him wet and open in an instant. A gasp is punched out of him, and Harry quickly clamps his mouth shut. He’s supposed to be quiet.

Draco undoes his belt and pulls out his cock. With his hands on Harry’s hips, he lifts Harry up to hover over him. He wants Draco inside him, but he tries not to move until he’s told to, tries to be good. Thighs trembling with effort, he waits. This time Draco doesn’t say anything, just searches his face, as if looking for any sign of stress or reluctance. Presumably seeing none, he eases Harry down.

Biting his lip to stop a moan escaping, Harry sinks down until he can feel woven fabric against his arse, the back of his thighs. It’s just as strange as the last time they did this. This way, it all feels so sudden and shocking, even though there’s no pain. But, Draco’s probably right. If he’d fingered him, he would get too wound up, he wouldn’t be able to last.

“Alright, darling?” asks Draco, kneading at his arse.

“Yes, sir,” he whispers.

“Good boy,” he says, taking his hands away and reaching for his abandoned book, still balancing on the wide arm of the chair. “Now, this is why I told you to be quiet. I’m going to read my book, and you’re going to stay still, and silent, so I can concentrate.”

His eyes widen. Draco’s going to read? His dick throbs at the thought of being ignored, being an object for Draco’s pleasure. He doesn’t have to think at all, doesn’t have to worry about making the right decisions- he can just let himself be used. Just a body. A toy.

Draco manhandles him into position, pushing his head down to lie on Draco’s shoulder, resting the book on his back. This position would be comfortable, domestic, if it weren’t for the dick that’s so hot and hard inside him. Harry settles down, breathing deeply. He lets go; Draco will decide when to fuck him, not Harry. It doesn’t matter that his body is screaming for release. All that matters is being good, and still, and quiet.

They stay like that for what could be minutes or hours, Harry doesn’t know. What he does know is that every third turn of the page, Draco checks he’s still with him. He strokes his hair, murmurs to him. He kisses his temple, strokes his thumb across his cheekbone, looking into Harry’s half-lidded eyes. Asking a silent question that Harry finds a way to just as soundlessly answer. Sometimes with a nuzzle into the starched fabric of Draco’s shirt, sometimes just with a sigh and lazy look. He probably would have fallen asleep without these peaceful disruptions, feeling so safe, because he knows Draco always takes care of his things.

The lull is broken by the harsh ringing of a phone. He jumps a little, still not moving from where he’s draped over strong legs and a firm chest. Draco makes soothing shushing noises as he puts his book down and summons the mobile. The noise stops, and he feels rush of relief. Then he hears a greeting, and he realises Draco hasn’t hung up. He’s answered it.

“Simi,” he hears him say. “Can you just hang on a sec?”

Harry hears a low buzz of a response not loud enough to hear.

Draco lifts Harry’s chin with a crooked finger, a treacherous smile on his face. “You don’t mind if I take this do you, darling?”

His dick dribbles onto Draco’s shirt a little. Oh fuck. Oh God. Is he really going to do this?

“No, sir. I don’t mind.”

“Are you sure?” he asks, voice less teasing and more serious. “I’ll have to tell them what’s happening. If we’re involving them in a scene, they need to consent.”

Harry’s voice is a little wobbly as he says: “Is it Simi?”

Draco nods, looking surprised he remembered the name of his muggle friend. But if they’re calling on a mobile, it probably isn’t a wizard. The idea of a muggle who knows nothing about ‘The Boy Who Lived’ and who won’t be disgusted by what they’re doing because they do similar things themselves, knowing about what’s happening, doesn’t seem so bad.

“Then yes, okay,” he says, leaning back down to rest on Draco’s shoulder once again. “Yes, sir,” he corrects.

Draco’s hand tightens on his hip as he brings the phone back to his ear. “Hi Simi, I’m in a bit of a situation right now. You see, I’ve got this pretty boy sitting on my cock, waiting for me to do whatever I want with him.”

There’s another buzzing response. Harry has to stop himself from wriggling on Draco’s dick. Someone, somewhere, knows exactly what a slut he’s being for Draco right now.

“I’m serious, but if that doesn’t bother you, I’m happy to talk.”

Simi must agree because no one says goodbye, and he thinks he hears the upwards lilt of a question.

Draco laughs. “Alright, then.”

Harry hears a short, plucky little beep.

“Okay, you’re on speaker phone.”

A gravelly voice, slightly tinny as it filters through the phone, fills the room. “This was supposed to be a quick call, but now I’m tempted to drag it out.”

“Take your time,” says Draco. “He’ll stay put as long as I want him to.”

“Is he being good, then?”

He strokes Harry’s cheek with his knuckles, but doesn’t look at him. “Oh, he’s being a very good boy, so patient for me.”

Harry closes his eyes, basking in the praise. It’s somehow even more powerful knowing that someone else can hear it.

“How long have you been playing with him?” asks Simi.

“Do you mean today, or…”

It’s so strange to be talked about like he’s not there, or like he can’t understand them, as if he were a baby or a dog. He’d managed to ignore his persistent arousal for so long, but now it seems like the most urgent thing in the world. He needs Draco to touch him, to pay attention to him. More than that, Harry wants him to drag the torture out. To ignore him, leave him waiting.

Harry misses part of the conversation as he wrestles with himself, trying to stay under control. He wants to be good, and that means not moving or making noise. If he wants Draco to praise him, to fuck him, to be pleased with him, he has to play by the rules.

“So what did you actually want to talk about?” wonders Draco.

“I was just going to tell you that, since you’re apparently loaded again, you’ll be bringing most of the alcohol on Saturday.”

He shrugs a little, nearly shaking Harry’s head off its perch. “Fine by me. Are you sure I can’t get you a new boiler while I’m at it? It could be an early birthday present.”

“Don’t you dare,” they say, tone light but serious. Clearly this thing about the boiler is some mixture of an in-joke and a genuine bone of contention. “You should bring your boy to the party, by the way. I want to meet whoever’s got you so smitten.”

Flexing his fingers around Harry’s hips, Draco brushes past the last comment.

“I’ll ask him,” he says.

“Alright, I’ll leave you to it then. See you Saturday.”

Draco sounds almost hurried and much less posh than usual as he says “Okay, bye.”

Simi says goodbye and hangs up, and Draco immediately lets the phone clatter to the floor. Before he knows what’s happening Draco is kissing him, fucking his tongue into Harry’s mouth. He wraps Harry in his arms, pulling him closer, moving him until his dick almost slips out. Draco must be so sensitive, after all this time. Harry certainly is. His rim is throbbing around the intrusion, being unable to close for so long. Even when Draco finally pulls out, it’s going to be open and burning for hours. Funnily enough, he’d barely noticed the ache until now.

“Fuck,” hisses Draco between hurried kisses. “You were amazing. You were perfect.”

Harry tries desperately not to whine, to moan, to _move_ , but he can’t. His hips hitch a little, and a low sound escapes.

“You did so perfectly, you deserve a reward. You can move now, darling. You can move, and you don’t have to be quiet.”

Harry lets out a moan of pure relief as he fucks himself down on Draco’s cock. After going so slowly for so long, things finally start to move fast. Draco meets him on every thrust, movements too frantic for their mouths to meet in a kiss.

“Merlin fuck, Harry,” groans Draco. “You’re killing me, you’re killing me.”

Distantly, Harry notices what he’s just called him. He’d called him Harry twice before, but both times he was trying to comfort Harry, not fuck him. Then he’s too distracted by Draco hitting his prostrate like a jackhammer to think about it anymore. His dick is rubbing against one of those infuriating, sexy embroidered shirts, and the friction is maddening. Harry comes first, slumping against Draco, completely exhausted.

Draco keeps jerking his hips, still hitting that sensitive spot, making Harry keen with overstimulation. He kisses Harry almost chastely as he stills, filling him with a wet warmth. Harry deepens the kiss, using it to show everything he’s feeling, even if he’s not sure what that is.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another Draco chapter! In all his soft, anxious, bitchy glory.

When Draco comes, he kisses Potter like this is the first time they’ve ever touched. Like Draco hasn’t been inside of him for almost two hours. Then Potter opens his mouth and turns the kiss into something else. He finally slips out, but he hardly notices. _Darling, darling,_ he vaguely hears himself chanting between kisses. Potter is reaching inside him and moving everything around, rearranging the furniture of his soul. He’s constructing Draco a new reality. One where Potter could love him back.

Draco mentally shakes himself. He’s getting carried away. It’s just a kiss. A fucking brilliant kiss, but just a kiss all the same. At any rate, there’s no time for Draco to have a mental breakdown. He’s got someone to look after. He pulls away, running his hands over Potter’s body, grounding him. He’s almost shaking in his arms, coming down from the high. Potter tries to dart back in for a kiss, but Draco stops him.

“Come on now darling,” he says lightly. “You’re dehydrated, you need to drink something.”

Potter nods in agreement, and Draco summons into his hand the bottle of water he’s left on the coffee table for this exact purpose. Draco gives him the bottle, but his hands are shaking too much to open it, so he takes the bottle back. Twisting off the lid, Draco cradles the back of his head and holds it to his lips. He doesn’t tilt it too far, keeping control of the flow of water, making sure Potter doesn’t drink too fast and make himself sick.

When Potter’s had half the bottle, he drinks the rest himself. Draco’s sweaty and overheated in his clothes, and starting to feel a little disgusting.

“Come upstairs,” he says, scratching at Potter’s scalp.

He nods, and climbs off Draco’s lap, legs wobbling somewhat. He holds a hand out to help pull Draco up, making him smile. Potter’s about as sturdy as a dandelion clock right now. He’ll blow away in the slightest breeze. Draco takes the hand anyway, though he gets up under his own steam. His own legs aren’t all that steady, but he’s still more stable than Potter. But then, he’s not been folded up in someone’s lap for millennia.

Draco keeps hold of his hand as he leads him upstairs, and he can’t ignore the thrill of it. Everything he’s done, everything that’s been done to him, and holding this one man’s hand is making his heart race. It seems more intimate, somehow, than anything else they’ve done. Perhaps because of its innocence.

He settles Potter on the bed, and undresses. Having sex in his clothes is all fun and games until he has to deal with being hot and uncomfortable afterwards. Too tired to fetch a flannel, he casts basic cleaning charms over their bodies. Potter stretches on the bed, rubbing his legs against the soft sheets like a cricket. It’s painfully charming, and Draco can’t resist lying down next to him.

“Are you alright?” he asks, smoothing a palm up and down Potter’s flank.

Potter hums thoughtfully. “Yeah. Are you?”

“I am perfectly content,” he says.

There is nowhere he’d rather be right now. Offer him the endless mirror of the Bolivian salt flats, the stars reflected in a desert oasis, the aurora borealis seen from a snowy mountainside- they’re nothing compared to this bed, in this little cottage in Hertfordshire, where Harry Potter is.

Potter shifts again, making a face. “I am a bit sore though.”

Draco suspects that’s an understatement. He’s always downplaying his own pain, be that physical or emotional.

“I’ve got a salve that’ll help, if you want,” he offers.

“Okay,” Potter agrees, looking embarrassed. “If you don’t mind.”

He fetches the pot from the bathroom cupboard rather than just _accio_ ing it. Organised as his products are, one knock would probably have them all falling over in neat lines, like dominoes.

“It has to be applied directly,” he says, biting his lip as he reads the label. He doesn’t need to, he made it after all, but for some reason he can’t look Potter in the eyes. “Do you want me to do it, or…”

Potter reddens a little. “Can you do it? You can probably reach better.”

Draco nods, and kneels on the bed. Potter turns over so that he’s lying on his stomach, and Draco decides that if he lets him, he’s going to fuck him like that sometime. When he spreads Potter’s cheeks a little, his hole looks red and used. Draco feels a thrum of satisfaction. Dipping a finger in the pot, he brushes delicately over the rim. The salve is cool and tingly on his skin, and he doesn’t have to wonder how it feels for Potter. After all, he invented it for himself, after tying someone down and fucking himself on their cock rather too roughly, a few too many times. He always likes the burn in the moment, but it grows old pretty sharpish once it’s over.

He prods a little deeper, keeping his movements tentative. Potter’s hole twitches, trying to close around his finger. Muffling a grunt into the pillow, Potter jerks his hips. Draco places a firm hand on the small of his back to keep him still.

“I know it feels odd, but you get used to it,” he says.

Potter hums in agreement, and this time Draco coats two of his fingers with salve. When he slips them in, Potter gasps. Pushing the salve in deeper, it displaces some of the come that his perfunctory charms didn’t clean away. Merlin, Draco came less than twenty minutes ago and he’s already itching to slide right back in. It would be so easy. He imagines this is what a well-fucked pussy would feel like. So wet and ready for him, still leaking his come. He crooks his fingers, just glancing over the prostrate.

Potter groans deeply, like a wounded animal. “Fuck, please Draco, please.”

Draco blinks, startled out of the strange trance he’d found himself in. He shouldn’t have teased Potter like that- there’s no way he’s ready to go again.

“Sorry,” he rasps, feeling penitent. “I’ll stop.”

“Don’t stop,” whispers Potter.

Draco’s mouth drops open. Surely he can’t mean…

“Are you hard?” he asks.

“No,” says Potter. “Are you?”

“I am now,” he admits.

“Then will you fuck me? I don’t need to come, I just- I just need-”

He must be feeling so empty. Getting fucked again will probably just make it worse later, but then again, if he falls asleep right after he won’t notice the discomfort. Besides, the salve will stop it from becoming painful. If it’s what he needs, and what Draco wants, then what’s the harm? Still, Draco’s not sure.

“Why?” he asks. “Tell me why, and I’ll do it.”

Potter hides his face more completely in the pillow, abashed, until he has to strain to hear him. “I miss you. I miss you inside of me.”

Draco whimpers. He’s only human, after all. Moving to cover Potter with his body, cock nestled between his cheeks, Draco murmurs in his ear.

“Like this?”

Potter huffs. “Draco, please. Just do it.”

“Alright,” chuckles Draco. “Alright.”

Scooping up a generous amount of salve, he uses it to coat his prick, rubbing it up and down. Lying back over Potter, he lets almost his full weight rest on him. Potter makes a punched-out noise, but he just waits, making sure his chest is still rising and falling. Satisfied that Potter can breathe just fine, he slips inside. Holding still for a long moment, Draco dots kisses over the sweeping curve of his neck and shoulder.

Potter breathes a sigh of relief.

It feels like sinking into a warm bath at the end of a long day. Still tight enough to hug his cock, but without any resistance. Draco makes such shallow thrusts he’s barely moving, careful not to put pressure on the over-sensitised prostrate. He makes minute rocking motions, moving only centimetres at a time. It reminds him of being a teenager. Face down in his bed, wriggling his dick into the sheets, thinking about how much he hated Potter. Imagining holding Potter’s skull tightly in his hands, keeping it still, as he rocked in and out of his mouth.

Now he’s a grown man, and all his fantasies are coming to life, only better. Draco takes a deep, steadying breath, and reminds himself that this isn’t a fantasy. He’s not alone with his thoughts; he has someone else to think about.

He smooths the damp hair from Potter’s forehead. “Is this what you needed, darling?”

“Yeah. Yeah, thank you,” he mumbles, eyelids heavy and fighting not to close.

“Anytime,” he says. “Any time you need me, I’ll be there.”

Draco grabs a pillow and pulls Potter up by the hips, placing the pillow under them. As he lifts him up, he sees Potter’s mostly-limp cock just hanging there. He wants to touch it, wants to squeeze the soft flesh and say _mine, you’re mine_. But he doesn’t. Instead, Draco lowers him down onto the pillow. Shit, but it really scratches at an itch Draco wishes he didn’t have. Fucking Potter while he’s soft, that is. It makes him feel protective, possessive. Completely undone.

He seems so vulnerable like this. Draco’s instincts are torn between wrapping him in cotton wool and eating him alive. Regardless, he’s happy to go at this cautious, teasing pace. His dick doesn’t recover as fast as it used to, and even though he got hard again pretty fast, it’ll still take a while before he’s ready to come again.

Potter’s eyes are completely shut now, cheek resting on the pillow. If it weren’t for the way he’s endlessly gripping and releasing the bunched-up sheets in his fists, Draco would think he’s asleep. The way his cock nudges softly inside, barely moving back and forth, reminds him of the way Potter suckled on his cock, his fingers. He thinks Potter found that comforting, and that’s the reason why he’s doing this right now. Potter needs soothing, reassuring.

He thumbs Potter’s bottom lip, dragging it down. He sucks the tip of Draco’s thumb inside his mouth, nibbling a little.

“You have such a sweet mouth, darling.” He keeps rocking his hips, voice low enough not to break the hush that’s fallen over the room. “Does it want to be filled, too?”

Potter hums around the thumb in his mouth, still not opening his eyes.

“Do you want something to suck on?”

The nod is small, about as small as Draco’s grinding back and forth, but definitely there. He removes his thumb and traces it over Potter’s nose, his brow, his chin. He loves him so much it’s a physical ache, an old war wound.

Potter makes an impatient noise, and Draco pauses, looking down at the man lying beneath him. Potter’s definitely in subspace. He didn’t start this with the intention of putting him under, but there’s no doubt that he has. Quite likely, he never fully came out of it in the first place.

He wrestles with himself for a moment. Is this okay? This isn’t something they’ve really discussed how to handle. Then again, it would definitely be more distressing for Potter to stop suddenly, jolting him out of it, than to see it through. Mind made up, he kisses Potter’s cheek in a gesture that feels more illicit than Draco’s cock in his arse. Perhaps because it feels stolen.

Grabbing his wand, he summons a dildo. Not one of the biggest but definitely a mouthful. Draco holds the plastic head against slack lips, not pushing it inside- letting Potter decide if he wants it.

“Here you go, sweetheart.”

_Sweetheart?_ thinks Draco. _Do you have no control?_

‘Darling’ is something he’s called partners before, and when he uses it on Potter it’s sincerely meant, but it’s not the same as calling him sweetheart. It feels so sugary soft, that if Potter wasn’t so deep in subspace, he’d know for certain that something was wrong. At this point, he might as well just give in and call him Harry, if he’s going to be throwing around words like _sweetheart_.

Potter licks at the dildo as if it were real, distracting him from his reverie. Draco pushes it forwards, so he doesn’t have to strain his neck to take it in. Potter swallows it down, throat bobbing as he swallows his spit, his mouth watering. Draco taps the toy with the base of his wand, keeping it hovering in position.

The picture he makes is so lovely that for a moment Draco’s sure something must be wrong. There’s no way someone like him gets to have this.

Simi’s calm voice pops into his head, reminding him what to do in situations like these, when his anxiety takes over. He takes a fortifying breath, halts the movement of his hips, and takes objective stock of the situation. Potter is relaxed, but still responsive. That means he’s not panicking or dissociating. He asked Draco to do this, he’s consented every step of the way- enthusiastically. Simi’s voice is loud and clear in his mind, repeating the phrases they’ve drilled into him over the years. _You’re doing nothing wrong. You’re allowed to be happy. You’re doing nothing wrong._

He takes another deep breath, and pushes back inside with a contented sigh. Finally, he lengthens his thrusts. He keeps them slow, and avoids abusing Potter’s prostrate. He lifts Potter’s hips a little more, for a better angle, and stares down at his cock. It’s not completely soft anymore, twitching as Draco glides in and out, but nowhere near hard. It amazes him that Potter could be so obviously enjoying himself, and yet not have an erection.

And he is enjoying himself. Potter’s taking the dildo deeper than he ever dared to take Draco, though he has the advantage of not needing to watch his teeth. He’s sucking on it shamelessly, spit dribbling from the corners of his mouth. He’s moving his chin up and down a little, but the angle isn’t right.

He puts a hand on the side of Potter’s head, stilling him. “Do you want it to move?”

Potter hums an affirmation.

Once again, he taps the base of the dildo with his wand, and it starts to piston back and forth. It fucks into Potter’s mouth at the same pace he’s fucking his arse, backing off just in time to stop him from gagging. Draco fucks him faster, watching as the toy speeds up to match him.

“Oh sweetheart, you need this don’t you?” he croons. “Once wasn’t enough, one cock wasn’t enough. You really were made to get fucked.”

He can feel his orgasm building, and he just fucks Potter harder. Draco’s head is hanging down, pale hair falling over his eyes, as he comes with a drawn-out moan.

The toy doesn’t stop when he does, and Potter just keeps sucking through it. He opens his eyes a crack, showing a sliver of green, and looks up at Draco. Sliding out carefully, he feels the come dribbling out after him. He reaches up to stop the toy moving, but when he tries to take it away, Potter shakes his head.

“No?” he asks, furrowing his brow. “Do you still want it?”

Potter nods. He clearly isn’t ready to come back down to earth.

“Alright,” he says, stroking his hair. “Just a bit longer.”

Draco cleans them up properly this time, feeling a pang of regret as he watches the dripping mix of come and lube and salve wash out of Potter’s arsehole. Maybe he should ask Potter if he can leave it there one time. Draco sighs. It’s dangerous to make plans; they have a way of falling apart.

He strokes Potter’s cheek with the back of his hand. “It’s time to stop now, darling.”

Reluctantly, Potter lets him take the toy away. Draco cleanses it, and sends it back to the chest it came from. He slides down to lie on his side, so they’re facing each other. They lie like that for a few minutes, Draco just watching him, until Potter finally speaks.

“Thanks,” he croaks.

Draco’s smile is heavy. Thoughtful. “You are… very welcome.”

“Can I some water?”

“Of course,” says Draco. He takes an empty mug from the bedside table, casts a quick _tergeo_ to remove the coffee stains, and fills it. “Here, sit up a bit.”

They shuffle upright, Draco’s arm around his shoulders, supporting his head. This time Potter holds the mug himself, his hands steadier than before. He tries to drink too fast, and some water escapes and runs down his chin.

“Steady on, Potter,” he says, amusement colouring his voice.

“You know, you don’t have to call me Potter,” he says, the strength returning to his voice. “Obviously you can if you want, but- you can call me Harry. I think we’re probably on a first name basis, at this point.”

Draco laughs. “True enough. I suppose it’s only fair, after I asked you not to call me Malfoy. In bed, anyway.”

He’s been struggling not to call him Harry as it is. It’s probably time to accept defeat. Harry places the mug on the bedside table and lets his head loll back on Draco’s arm.

“Draco?”

“Yes?” he says, idly twisting strands of Potter’s hair through his fingers.

“Why do you do this?” he asks. “Why do you, you know. Look after me.”

The clinical answer is that it’s the right thing to do. No one, dom or sub, should participate in a scene unless they’re prepared to perform the necessary aftercare. However, that’s not the whole truth, and it’s not what Harry’s really asking.

He lets his head fall on top of Harry’s. “Because I want to.”

Harry doesn’t respond. Instead, he puts his hand on Draco’s knee, and keeps it there.

“You know, Simi was right,” says Draco. “You should come on Saturday.”

Harry just turns to look at him.

“You should have someone other than me to talk to about this stuff, another sub perhaps. Not everyone who’s coming is into kink, but quite a few are. I can introduce you to some people.”

Harry tilts his head. “Maybe, but… Won’t it be awkward? I haven’t even met Simi.”

Draco smirks. “Except on the phone, you mean? Besides,” adds Draco. “It’s not an intimate gathering. You won’t be out of place.”

“What kind of ‘gathering’ is it, then?”

“They’ve just finished their Master’s degree, and want to celebrate with an inordinate amount of booze, and weed, and fun people,” he says. “It’s not that complicated.”

Harry shrugs. “Alright then.”

Draco smiles. This is exactly what they need.

“So,” says Harry. “What time is it? _Where_ is it? Should I bring anything?”

“It’s at ten o’clock, but I’ll need to be a few minutes early as I’m providing the drinks. You don’t need to bring anything; I’ll just come over at ten to and we can side along there.”

“Okay,” he says. “Thanks.”

“You’re very welcome,” says Draco solemnly.

Harry yawns so wide his jaw cracks. “God, I’m tired. Do you mind if I stay?”

Draco shuffles down the bed, pulling the other man with him. He tugs the covers over them both, tangling their legs together.

“You can stay as long as you like.”

Just gone noon the next day, there is an angry pounding at his door. For a minute he panics that the Aurors have come to take him away again. He shivers, remembering the few days he spent in a cell in Azkaban, awaiting trial. Maybe someone accused him of putting poison in his cosmetics? Maybe someone’s cat went missing, and they decided he must have killed it for a dark ritual? Or, maybe, he’s being arrested for defiling the wizarding world’s Golden Boy. That’s not a crime, of course, but he doubts everyone will see it that way. They’ll probably pass a new law specifically for it. He takes a deep breath, and goes to the door. He hasn’t done anything wrong. Recently, anyway.

Fortunately, it’s not the Aurors. Unfortunately, it’s Weasley. He’s definitely not Draco’s type, but even he can admit the man’s grown up well. When he smiles, his face can actually be quite handsome, if you ignore the rest of his personality.

He’s not smiling now. “Malfoy,” he spits.

Draco nods coolly. “Weasley.”

“Well,” he says. “Are you going to let me in?”

“Well,” parrots Draco. “Are you going to ask politely?”

Weasley just barges past him into the hallway. Obviously he could have stopped him; even though Weasley is both taller and broader than him, his wards would never allow anyone inside who wasn’t welcome. Although, ‘welcome’ might be stretching it a bit. ‘Grudgingly admitted for Harry’s sake’ would be more accurate.

He closes the door behind him and turns to face Weasley. “So?”

Weasley’s jaw is set firm. “So. How many times have you, a cowardly ferret of a Death Eater, fucked my best friend?”

“That depends,” he says, folding his arms. “Are we counting blow jobs or just anal?”

Weasley punches him in the mouth, knocking his head backwards. Pain ricochets through his teeth, his jaw, his skull.

“Fuck.” He licks over his teeth to check none have been knocked out, tasting blood. Just a split lip it seems. “Fucking hell.”

Weasley is shaking out his hand, eyebrows bunched in a frown. He hopes he’s broken it, the stupid git.

Draco doesn’t let this sentiment show on his face. “Feeling better?”

Weasley’s frown doesn’t go away, but now it just looks dumbfounded. He scans his eyes over Draco, probably wondering if he gave him brain damage. “Why aren’t you pissed off? I just hit you, I thought you’d be hexing me right now.”

“Honestly? I’m just glad someone’s looking out for Potter.” He shoots Weasley a sarcastic smile, painfully stretching his split lip. “Not that you’ve done a stellar job of it, considering how that shit stain of a boyfriend treated him. Did you punch him, too? Or am I just special?”

Weasley looks guiltily at his feet, and Draco sighs to himself. Like it or not, this ginger idiot is Harry’s friend. If he wants to keep him in his life, he needs to play nice.

“Do you like bagels?”

“What?” says Weasley, squinting with confusion.

Draco speaks slowly, enunciating every syllable. “It’s lunch time. I have bagels. Do you want one?”

“Alright, I heard you, no need to be an arsehole,” says Weasley.

Draco shrugs. True, there’s no _need_ to be an arsehole- but it’s always fun.

“Go on then, Malfoy. If we have to talk, we might as well be eating.”

In the kitchen, he slathers the bagels with cream cheese and smoked salmon, the way Simi’s mother showed him. Draco puts the plates down on the same table that he fucked Potter on, and wonders if Weasley would punch him again if he told him that. He won’t tell him, but it’s still fun to think about. They start eating, the tart flavours balancing perfectly with the mellow chewiness of the bread. Draco observes the man in front of him, happily chewing away, except for the slight crease still between his brows.

“Assuming you didn’t come here _just_ to assault me, what do you want, Weasley?”

He watches as the man takes a large bite, cream cheese smearing at the corner of his mouth.

Weasley shrugs. “I also wanted to check you weren’t blackmailing him or slipping love potions into his tea.”

“Well, I’m not. Though I doubt you’ll take my word for it.”

Weasley just shrugs again.

“What was your plan?” he asks. “Torture me into confessing?”

“I didn’t have a plan, per se, but it definitely didn’t involve you making me lunch.”

“So you don’t trust me not to dose Potter with potions, but you do trust me not to poison you. Again.” Draco sucks on his bleeding lip, before releasing it. “Sorry about that, by the way.”

Weasley looks unimpressed. “You wouldn’t kill me, Malfoy. You’re too much of a coward.”

“Is that any way to talk to your host?”

“Look, I’m not convinced you haven’t done something to Harry,” he says. “And it’s not just because it’s you. He says he told you about what happens when he tries to have sex, and you had an idea that helped him. Didn’t say what it was, though.” Weasley takes a deep breath, and continues. “It just seems too simple. Too sudden. I can’t believe that he’s fine having sex with you, a man he’s hated for years, and not someone he loves.”

Draco sighs again. “I meant what I said before; I’m glad someone’s looking out for him. Which is why I’m going to take verituserum, and you’re going to interrogate me until you can be sure I’m not hurting Potter.”

“Really?” asks Weasley.

“Yes, really, but I do have two conditions,” he says. “One: you can’t ask about the actual sex. That stays between Potter and me. Two: you can’t tell him what I say under compulsion. That stays between you and me.”

Weasley nods. “Fine. But I’m bringing the verituserum, so I know you haven’t fucked with it. And it’ll have to be later, my lunch break’s nearly over.”

Weasley leaves with considerably less fanfare than when he arrived, his hostility merely simmering rather than boiling over. Draco slumps down into the large armchair, wishing Potter was in his lap again. Wishing he could bury his nose in his hair, breathe him in, let his anxiety drift away. But he can’t. He’s alone, and he’s just offered to relive something awful. Much like using a pensieve, he hasn’t been under verituserum since his trial, and it’s another experience he didn’t anticipate having to repeat. Being forced to spill all his sins, his fears, his desires, to a panel of unfeeling faces was… harrowing.

This time he’ll only have to face one man, but he doesn’t feel much better about it. Considering the line of questioning, Draco’s biggest secret is bound to spill out. He’ll know that Draco’s in love with Harry. He can only hope that Weasley will keep to the terms of their agreement, and not tell his friend what he knows.

Weasley comes back on the dot of half past five. He escorts him into the living room, sitting himself back down in the armchair and gesturing for Weasley to take a seat on the sofa. Nothing about this is comfortable, but he’s still going to try his hardest to make it so.

“You have it, then?”

Weasley takes a small vial out of his pocket. It’s perfectly clear, and looks innocent as water. “Three drops should do it, they said.”

Draco takes the vial from Weasley and holds it up to him, as if making a toast. “To trust,” he says, smiling bitterly.

Pulling out the cork, he lets three drops fall on his tongue. Like a poison, it’s completely tasteless, designed for the unsuspecting. Truly, he thinks this might be the evilest potion. Draught of the Living Death. Amortentia. Both are contenders, to be sure. But if you ask Draco, verituserum takes the cake.

He spreads his hands expansively, determined not to show his distress. “Well then Weasel, ask away.”

Weasley leans forwards, his elbows on his knees and his hands clasped under his chin. He doesn’t start right away, as if unsure what to ask first.

“Go on, I won’t bite,” he says generously.

“Are you forcing Harry to have sex with you,” he asks.

“No.” The answer is swift, and definite.

“Are you using magic to manipulate Harry?”

“No,” says Draco.

Weasley’s gaze is still steely. “Are you manipulating Harry in any way at all?”

“Not that I’m aware of.”

“Do you believe that Harry wants to have sex with you of his own free will?” he asks.

“Yes,” says Draco, resigned to being asked numerous permutations of the same question until Weasley runs out of ways to phrase it.

“Have you ever hurt Harry?”

“Yes,” he says. “What a stupid question, Weasley. I’ve hurt him many times, and you know it. Now, are you satisfied? Or are we going to keep going in circles forever?”

Weasley leans back and grips his knees. “I’m not done yet, Malfoy.”

Draco just wants this to be over. He wants Weasley out of his house. Then again, he wants a lot of things he can’t have. You get used to it after a while.

“Then hurry up and get it over with,” says Draco, casting his eyes to the heavens.

Weasley crosses his arms tightly. “Why are you sleeping with Harry?”

Draco’s heart stops. He tries to say one of the many other reasons why. All true, all part of his reasoning, but none are the whole truth. He can’t wriggle out of it; the potion compels him.

“I’m in love with him.”

Weasley’s face would be comical, under different circumstances. Eyes bulging, mouth opening and closing wordlessly, he looks like Longbottom’s pet toad. Trevor, he thinks his name was.

“You’re in love with him,” he repeats, voice flat.

“Yes.” Draco tries to add something scathing, to soften the blow, but can’t.

“Right,” says Weasley, talking and nodding to himself. “Right.”

“Will that be all then? Or would you care to humiliate me further?”

Weasley looks about the room, as if checking he is actually in Draco Malfoy’s house, and not some bizarre dream world. Finding nothing of comfort, he looks back at Draco. He opens his mouth again, gearing up to ask a barrage of insensitive questions no doubt, but clamps his jaws shut at the last minute.

Weasley jumps to his feet. “I think I’d better go.”

Thank heaven for small mercies.

Draco shows him to door, but grabs his wrist at the last second. “You can’t tell Harry.”

“I said I wouldn’t,” grumbles Weasley, shaking him off.

“Good,” says Draco sharply. “I kept my end of the deal, Weasley. Make sure to keep yours.”

Weasley steps out, narrowly avoiding the door being slammed in his face.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I miss going to parties so badly I want to smash a plate. Even more dialogue heavy chapter than usual, but such is the nature of socialising.
> 
> UPDATE: unfortunately there’s going to be a short break in posting. Ironically it’s partyly because I can’t stop dissociating, but also because I have uni deadlines. Don’t fear, it is not abandoned, and I’ll be back before you know it!

At quarter past nine on Saturday night, Harry has a minor breakdown. He’d gotten out of the shower, opened his wardrobe, and realised that every item of clothing he owned was terrible and if he wore any of them to Simi’s party then Draco would be embarrassed to be seen with him. Even now, as he holds two different t-shirts in his hands, one blue and one red, he knows he’s making a mountain out of a molehill. Draco’s never cared what he wears before, but then he always gets him naked pretty quickly.

Harry needs to outsource this dilemma to someone who knows what they’re doing. Ron and Hermione are out of the question. Not only would Ron rather die than help Harry do anything to impress a Malfoy, but neither are very invested in fashion. He’s always admired Luna’s unique style, but he doesn’t think edible earrings and hand-sewn dresses are the solution here. Ginny would just laugh. Maybe he needs to think a little wider. Zabini is always impeccably turned out, but they’re not close friends. They only ever see each other at the monthly pub nights. Still, Harry gets the feeling he might help him anyway.

He goes downstairs and chucks some floo powder into the fireplace, kneeling down to stick his head in the flames. Zabini is sitting on a large black Chesterfield sofa with one leg tucked beneath him, in fluffy yellow socks. Millie is reclining on the other end, with her feet in Zabini’s lap. They’re both holding truly enormous glasses of wine.

“Erm, hello, sorry,” says Harry. “You’re obviously busy. It’s not urgent, I’ll go.”

Zabini looks startled into the fire, then into his wine glass, then back at the fire. “Potter, is that you?”

“Yes, sorry again. Bye.”

Harry starts to back out of the fireplace, but Millie’s voice stops him.

“Wait a minute! Come back here and tell us what Gryffindor nonsense this is,” she orders. “Or Blaise will never shut up about it otherwise.”

“Um, it’s really stupid,” he says.

Zabini swings his legs of the sofa, violently displacing Millie’s feet and making her squawk in protest, so that he’s facing Harry directly. “Is this about Draco?”

“Sort of.” He shrugs. “Yes.”

Zabini beckons imperiously. “Come on through then, old chap. Let’s hear all about it.”

Harry takes his head out of the flames and floos over. Zabini stands, and wanders over to a drink’s cabinet.

“Wine, Potter?”

He’s probably going to need it. “Go on then. Thanks.”

“So,” says Millie. “Spill the beans.”

Harry sighs. “It really is stupid.”

“Yes, I expect so,” she says.

Zabini hands him a glass of red wine and he takes a grateful sip.

“Draco’s taking me to a party with his muggle friends and I don’t know what to wear.”

Zabini cackles. “Oh, that’s brilliant. One day you’re defeating dark wizards with the power of friendship and just-shagged hair, and a few years down the line, you’re like a teenage girl who can’t find a dress for the Yule ball.”

Harry scowls and folds his arms.

“Don’t be a dick, Blaise” says Millie. “This is obviously the first time he’s ever actually thought about his clothes other than ‘shall I wear _this_ scruffy pair of jeans with holes in, or _this_ scruffy pair of jeans with holes in’. It’s bound to hurt his head.”

Harry sighs, but smiles despite himself. The more time he spends around Slytherins, the more he thinks insults might actually be their way of showing affection. When Millie and Zabini first starting to coming to pub nights, he thought they despised each other. It was only a year later, when he expressed concern to Hermione over a particularly nasty exchange, that she informed him they were actually best friends. And that’s not even starting on Draco’s own individual brand of derision.

Zabini shakes his head. “Well, Potter. In a rare show of genius, you’ve come to the right place.”

Zabini whisks off into another room and returns with a procession of clothes floating on hangers behind him.

“Go on then Potter, take your kit off,” he says. “Let’s see what we’re working with.”

Harry folds his arms over his chest. “I’m not doing that!”

“Gryffindors,” sighs Millie. “Such prudes.”

After that it’s a whirlwind of fabric, Harry occasionally nipping back to Grimmauld to offer up different shirts and shoes for their inspection.

“You’ll definitely have to wear some of my jeans. None of yours are remotely up to standard,” says Zabini.

What Zabini calls ‘jeans’ turn out to be washed-out charcoal denims, tight enough to make Harry blush.

“You should wear your own shoes though,” says Millie. “It’ll be terribly obvious you’ve had help if you look _too_ put together.”

He ends up wearing his own t-shirt as well. It’s forest green, the one Hermione says brings out his eyes. Finally, Zabini corrals him into a thin black bomber jacket, pushing the sleeves purposefully up to his elbows.

“There,” says Zabini, standing back to look at him with his hands on his hips. “Not half bad, if I do say so myself.”

After he’s been bundled off home, with a promise to Zabini that he won’t try and wash the clothes before he returns them, (My house elf Punty will take care of it, Potter. I don’t trust you not to shrink them three sizes’) he has a few minutes to savour the sudden calm. Zabini and Millicent are a cyclone of bossy-but-helpful orders, acerbic observations, and backhanded compliments. It’s a bit like being lovingly slapped with a wet fish. He’s still reeling when Draco steps through the floo at exactly ten to ten. When he does a doubletake, looking Harry up and down, he knows the ordeal was worth it.

Harry smirks, feeling quite pleased with himself, before his face freezes. Fuck, but Draco looks fit. He’s wearing a burgundy silk shirt, the first few buttons undone, showing a hint of delicate collarbone. The colour makes his pale skin look luminous, like marble. Instead of peach, his nails are painted pitch black, and silver rings adorn his fingers. Harry swears there’s a matching silver sheen to his eyelids, and is that… Yes, it is. It’s lip gloss. It makes him look like he’s been kissing for hours, and Harry wants to do just that. Harry ducks his head, a little embarrassed at his reaction.

“Hi,” he says shyly. “You look- you look nice.”

Draco throws his head back and laughs at his awkwardness. “Hello, Harry. You don’t look too shabby yourself.”

“Do you have the drinks?” he asks. Draco doesn’t seem to be carrying anything.

“Undetectable extension charm,” says Draco, pulling the handle of a plastic carrier bag out of his back pocket, before tucking it in again and holding his hand out to Harry. “Shall we?”

Harry nods and takes his hand.

They apparate into a dark alleyway, and Harry shivers in his thin jacket. Draco pulls the bag fully out of his pocket, and produces three more bags of bottles from inside, handing one to Harry. The glass rattles ominously, and Harry has to rest a hand underneath so the handles don’t snap under the weight.

“What did you get?” he asks.

“Mostly vodka,” answers Draco, before continuing. “It’s only a minute’s walk from here, so we won’t be carrying them long.”

Draco lets them in with his own key, striding off to the adjoining kitchen and calling out for Simi. Harry pauses in the doorway, taking it all in. Draco’s old flat is small, but well loved. The building itself should probably be condemned, and the furniture had ‘seen better days’ about ten years past, but there’s no mistaking the warmth. Not literal warmth, as it was actually freezing, but personal touches that made it seem like a home. The overgrown cheese plant in the corner, the static muggle photographs spilling over every surface, the herbs growing on the kitchen windowsill. In a way, it reminds Harry of a cross between a Neville’s plant-filled house and the Burrow.

Simi opens the door to what must be their bedroom, leaning out to yell at Draco where he’s putting bottles in the fridge.

“One minute, I’m not ready.” They turn to see Harry hovering in the doorway, and winking cheekily. “Oh, hello there. Come on in, I’ll be out in a sec.”

Harry closes the door behind him and follows Draco into the kitchen, handing him the rest of the bottles. True to their word, Simi joins them promptly.

Simi smiles at him. “Sorry about that, my hair was being a nightmare, as usual.”

Harry stares a little. Simi is stunning, in a confusing sort of way. Their hair, that they’d apparently been struggling with, looks immaculate. It’s a deep, hickory brown, and it would have been down to their shoulders if it wasn’t twisted into an elaborate braid. Their eyes are almost black they’re so dark, hooded and heavy, lined with Kohl. There’s a subtle hook to their nose, sharpening the roundness of their face. Simi’s tall, taller than Draco even, though much slighter. They’ve painted their lips a deep shade of purple, almost black, and he wonders if they’re the one who encouraged Draco to experiment with makeup. If so, he’d like to shake their hand.

In the end, it’s Simi who shakes _his_ hand. “Hey, I’m Simi.”

“Harry,” he says, struggling to look them in the eye. This person knows exactly what he and Draco get up to. They even _heard_ some of it. “Thanks for inviting me.”

They laugh. “Well, I wanted to meet whoever had Draco so-”

“Simi,” warns Draco.

“Lord, what a spoilsport.” they drawl, rolling their eyes. “Let’s have a drink and put some music on- create an atmosphere, and all that jazz.”

The first people to arrive are a couple in their thirties called Jake and Tabby. Jake looks mild, average, and when Harry tried to make small talk with him, he learns he’s an accounts manager. Tabby has a shaved head covered in floral tattoos and wears a long yellow dress. She works as an art therapist and is currently writing and illustrating a children’s book. Privately, Harry marvels at their being together.

Next is a stream of Simi’s fellow Masters students. A ragtag collection of people ranging in ages, but all with the slightly manic expression of people who have just finished something stressful and momentous. Simi circulates around the room, sometimes making introductions, and sometimes leaving them to it. Draco and Harry stand shoulder to shoulder, glasses in hand.

When a burly, dark haired man arrives, Draco nudges him with his elbow. “This is one of people I wanted you to meet,” he says, before waving to the man.

The man smiles, sunny expression contrasting his leather jacket and fuck-off boots. “Draco! I hoped you’d be here.”

The man kisses Draco’s cheek, and Harry’s stomach seems to flip over on itself.

“Harry,” says Draco. “This is Angus. Angus, this is Harry.”

Angus’s hands are nearly twice the size of his when he goes for a handshake, but his grip is light and easy. “Good to meet you, Harry.”

Before they have a chance to catch up, Tabby cajoles them into joining her, Jake, and a shy looking boy on the lumpy sofa and mismatched chairs. Apparently, there’s a debate she wants them to weigh in on.

“Okay,” says Tabby. “You’ve all seen _The Butterfly Effect_ , right?”

Everyone nods except for Harry.

Tabby nods back. “Right. So. Did he or did he not bite that man’s dick off?”

Harry blinks. _What?_

The shy young man says ‘yes’ at the same time that Angus, just as emphatically, says ‘no’. Draco doesn’t say anything yet, and Harry just stares at them in bewilderment.

Tabby throws her hands up and looks at the boy. “See Nick? It’s just you. Everyone else thinks he cut it off.”

“Well, not really,” says Draco.

Everyone turns to look at him, commanding their attention with his confident drawl.

Draco leans forward. “They released two different versions of the film, and in one of them he does actually bite it off.”

“Oh,” says Harry, relieved. “You’re talking about a film.”

They all laugh, Tabby’s high giggle filling the room.

“What did you think we were on about?” she asks.

“I had no idea. I was about to call the Au- the police.”

Angus shakes his head. “Not the best first impression, I’m sure. But then the first time I met Draco, he was so drunk that when we were walking home, he started talking to a garden gnome, telling it to hide or someone would see it.”

Harry laughs, understanding Draco’s inebriated logic more than his muggle friends can. Then he wonders why Draco might’ve been walking home with someone he just met, and sobers a little.

Simi wanders over and perches on the arm of the sofa. “Sounds like you’re having way too much fun without me.”

“We were just telling Harry about Draco’s younger days,” says Tabby, before turning back to him. “He was a mess.”

Simi grins the evil grin of someone about to thoroughly humiliate their best friend. “You should have seen what his hair was like when I first met him. He had it all slicked back; it was so uptight. I have pictures. Draco won’t let me put them up, but I’ll show you.”

Draco looks strangled.

“That’s okay,” says Harry. “I saw it nearly every day for years. It’s much better now though.”

Tabby frowns. “What do you mean?”

“Oh, we went to school together.”

“What?” says Jake with a mild frown, the most extreme expression Harry’s seen from him. “That posh boarding school in Scotland?”

Harry shrugs. “It wasn’t that posh.”

Simi turns on Draco accusingly. “Is that true?”

Draco just hides his face in his drink, so Harry answers for him.

“Yep. We’ve known each other since we were eleven,” he says.

“And would you say you were friends, or…” questions Simi with a calculating look in their eye.

“No,” laughs Harry. “I’m pretty sure I called him my ‘arch rival’ at one point, but I was a pretty dramatic teenager.”

Simi gasps. “Is your last name Potter, by any chance?”

Draco looks stricken, his face pale. He knows that Simi’s a muggle, so they definitely don’t know his name because of that. The only thing that makes sense is that Draco’s mentioned him, but why would that make him look so panicked?

“Yes,” he confirms hesitantly.

“Lord,” exclaims Simi. “You’re the same person.”

That makes absolutely no sense, of course he’s the same person as himself, but Harry’s distracted by the realisation of where Draco picked up his habit of saying ‘Lord’ from.

“You,” says Simi, pointing at Draco accusingly. “Bathroom. Now.”

Draco slinks off after them with his tail between his legs, mouthing ‘sorry’ at Harry as he goes.

“Should I be worried?” asks Harry, looking to the others.

Jake shrugs. “Probably.”

After that, Nick goes to fetch another drink and doesn’t return, and Jake and Tabitha become embroiled in a complicated discussion of figure skating with a professorial looking gentleman. That leaves him and Angus, sitting together awkwardly.

“So,” says Angus. “How long have you and Draco been a thing?”

“We’re not really ‘a thing’,” he says carefully.

“Are you sure? Doesn’t look that way.”

Harry takes a swig of his drink. “I mean, we’re sleeping together, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Oh yeah?” says Angus, looking interested.

“He actually, um. He actually suggested I talk to you.”

Angus raises his eyebrows. “If Draco’s telling you to talk to his ex, then I’ve got a pretty good idea what it’s about.”

Harry’s blood curdles. _His ex?_ Draco never said anything about that. He takes a deep breath, then an even deeper drink. He knows Draco isn’t a monk, quite obviously not, so why is he going mental over meeting someone he used to date?

“What’s that, then?” he asks, keeping his voice level.

“Submission, most likely.”

Harry bites his lip. Nods.

Angus looks over in the direction of the bathroom, where Draco and Simi still haven’t emerged. “He’s a good dom, isn’t he?”

“Yeah,” he agrees, voice cracking a little. “I can’t exactly compare him to anyone else, but- He takes care of me.”

“You’re new to it then?”

“Very,” he says.

“Draco was pretty new to it when we started,” says Angus. “But fuck if he isn’t a natural.”

Harry gestures vaguely at Angus with the hand holding his drink. “So you’re…”

“A sub? Yeah.”

Harry looks him over again, a little surprised. He looks so powerful compared to Harry, magic notwithstanding. It also makes him wonder what Draco sees in him. Would he prefer if Harry was bigger, if he had more muscles? Then again, he did seem to like how Harry fit in his lap, how he could cover him with his body.

“Why do you think we like it?” asks Harry. “I don’t really understand.”

“There doesn’t have to be a clear-cut answer, and not everyone’s reasons are the same. My dad was a man’s man, and a raging bigot. Growing up, it was all ‘boys don’t cry’ and ‘don’t be such a pussy’’. I tried to be the person he wanted, and when I realised I was gay it made me so fucking scared. But I wasn’t allowed to be scared of anything, yeah? The only thing I was allowed to feel was anger.”

Harry looks at him, eyes wide with understanding, and lets him continue.

“And I’ve always been big,” he says. “So, people kind of made assumptions about what I’d be like in bed. And yeah, I did like being on top, but I didn’t want to push anyone around. I didn’t want to be rough, or commanding, or mean. After all that time trying to be a hard man, trying not to feel anything, the first time someone else took charge, held me down and took what they wanted… it was like a light switched on in my head.”

So much of this sounded familiar to Harry, his heart was in his throat a little. It’s not exactly the same, but it’s enough. For now, he feels a little less like a freak.

“Thanks for telling me that,” he says. “Your dad sounds like he’d get on with my Uncle Vernon. He was always saying stuff like that.”

Finally, Draco and Simi exit the bathroom. There were already two people waiting outside, one jogging from foot to foot, who dashes straight in after them. Draco looks serious, with creases between his brows, but Simi just looks speculative. A bit like Hermione when she has a theory.

Draco settles down into the seat next to Harry. “Everything alright?”

“Hey Draco. We’ve just been slagging you off,” says Angus.

Draco grins, but it doesn’t look quite right. “Don’t stop on my account.”

“Actually, he was singing your praises,” says Harry.

And really, he was being very complimentary. Does he want to get back together with Draco? Does Draco want to get back together with _him_?

Draco winks at Angus. “A likely story.”

He winks. He actually winks at him. Harry might die. He likes Angus, he’s great, he feels a real kinship with him, but he also wants to smother him with a sofa cushion.

“Drinks,” says Harry, clearing his throat. “We need more drinks. What do you guys want?”

After collecting their orders and convincing Draco to stay and save his seat, Harry heads to the kitchen. It’s crowded, people just milling around, and Harry has to weave his way over to the drinks table. First, he grabs a beer for Angus. He thinks about taking another one for himself, but the image of Draco winking at his ex keeps flashing behind his eyes, and he decides he needs something stronger. He mixes himself a rum and coke, heavy on the rum. Draco asked for vodka and cranberry, but when he looks distractedly around the table, he can’t see the juice anywhere. _It must be in the fridge_ , thinks Harry. He turns around to go and see, and collides with another body. Luckily, neither of them are holding anything liquid.

Harry steps back, already apologising, and looks at the other man. He’s handsome. About Harry’s height, but much broader. His grey eyes are very close to Harry’s own, framed with subtle laughter lines.

“No need to apologise,” says the man. “My fault entirely.”

Harry smiles awkwardly. “No, no, I wasn’t looking where I was going.”

“Well I was, and I still let you bump into me. So, you’ll have to let me take the blame.”

Harry’s not really sure what he’s on about, but he’s happy enough to let it go. He’s about to smile politely and resume his quest when the man squeezes his arm in a friendly, familiar sort of way.

“I’m Samuel,” he says. “A pleasure to meet you.”

“I’m Harry. And, um, likewise. A pleasure, that is.”

Samuel laughs, rich and deep. “Now, you look like a man on a mission. I hope I’m not keeping you from anything.”

“I’m fetching drinks, but I can’t find the cranberry for Draco’s vodka,” he says.

“It’s right there,” says Samuel, nodding over his shoulder.

Harry turns around, following Samuel's gaze. Sure enough, there it is.

“Oh,” he says, biting his lip in embarrassment.

He starts pouring the drink. Samuel hasn’t moved, so now that Harry’s facing the other way, Samuel is right behind him. There really isn’t much room in this little kitchen. It’s more of a kitchenette, now that he thinks about it.

“You know Draco, then?” asks Samuel.

“Yeah, we came together.”

Samuel finally moves, coming to stand next to him at the table and fix his own drink. “As a date? He’s very lucky, if so.”

“I- I don’t know,” stammers Harry, unnerved by the question and the compliment alike. “I don’t think so; Simi invited me.”

“Then maybe I’m the lucky one,” he says with the slow, confident smile of a man used to getting what- and who- he wants.

Harry intends to make a quick escape, but with two full glasses and a bottle of beer to contend with, it’s not looking likely.

“Let me help you with that,” says Samuel, taking the bottle of beer as well as his own drink.

They make their way back over to Draco and Angus together. The older man Jake and Tabby had been talking to earlier seems to have claimed Harry’s seat.

“Sorry Harry,” says Draco. “We fought bravely, but were soundly defeated.”

“We couldn’t let the old man stand, he could keel over at any minute,” says Angus.

The man laughs, clearly unbothered, but Harry misses his response. There’s a sharp look in Draco’s eyes when he watches Samuel stood by his side, and it makes a shiver run through him. He hands Draco his drink, and receives murmured thanks, before that gaze is directed at him again.

“There’s only one spot on the sofa left,” says Draco quietly, eyes flitting back to Samuel momentarily. “If you want your new friend to stay, you’ll have to sit on my lap.”

Harry swallows, and sits himself down on Draco’s knees without a word. Draco’s arm wraps around his stomach, squeezing once before going lax, and staying there. Harry gulps at his drink, wishing he’d made it stronger. Samuel sits in the vacant spot, and it puts him directly opposite Harry and Draco. As hard as Draco’s stare is, Samuel doesn’t flinch.

“How do you two know each other?” asks Harry.

Samuel’s smile is charming. Predatory. “We tend to haunt the same establishments.”

The leather bar, then. That doesn’t explain the animosity between them, one-sided that it is. Samuel doesn’t acknowledge Draco’s glare; his eyes are fixed on Harry.

He lets himself be dragged into the wider conversation, something silly that Harry only half understands, but they seem to enjoy his lack of cultural know-how. He doesn’t mind being teased- anything to take away from the double tension of Draco wrapped around him and Samuel’s eyes boring into him. The alcohol is catching up to him, and he finds himself laughing more easily, leaning back into Draco’s warmth more freely. At one point, Draco’s thumb slips under the hem of his t-shirt and starts stroking absentmindedly at his waist.

Suddenly, Samuel is standing in front of him, holding out a drink. Harry hadn’t even noticed him leave to go to the kitchen.

“Oh, thanks,” he says, taking a sip and nearly choking on the fiery rum. “Shit, that’s strong.”

“Sorry,” shrugs Samuel, though he’s not looking all that penitent.

“I don’t mind,” says Harry, smiling up at him. Any discomfort he felt earlier seems to have melted away. So what if a nice, handsome man wants to be nice and handsome at him? It doesn’t do any harm. “Thank you.”

“You already said thank you,” says Draco snippily, his warm breath tickling Harry’s neck.

Harry takes another sip, slower this time, prepared for the sickly-sweet burn. His limbs feel loose, and all he wants to do is kiss that sneer off of Draco’s mouth. It makes him look younger. Like a version of him he knew a long time ago. Instead, he settles for laying his hand over Draco’s where it rests on his stomach.

When Angus gets up, Simi quickly replaces him. “Harry, I’ve been meaning to ask. Have you got any embarrassing stories about Draco from school?”

Harry grins, then frowns just as quickly. What can he say that both doesn’t involve magic, or dredge up horrible memories for both of them?

“Once he drew a picture of me being hit by lightning and gave it to me during class,” Harry smirks at how outraged his teenage self had been at the time. “The drawing was quite good, though. It definitely looked like me.”

Draco rumbles a laugh that he can feel against his back. “That’s not exactly hard, Potter. You only have to draw terrible hair, a speccy face, and a scar on your forehead, and it’s the spitting image.”

Harry cranes his head round towards him, still smiling. “You’re only calling me Potter because we’re talking about school.”

“True,” says Draco, a sly look on his face, before lowering his voice. “Do you remember that time we…”

Draco trails off, and he knows exactly what he’s talking about. When Draco told him about his teenage fantasy, and Harry rode him for the first time.

“That time you what?” asks Simi.

Harry blushes, laughing helplessly, pointedly not answering the question.

“I don’t know why I’m the one who’s embarrassed,” says Harry. “It’s _you_ who wanted to fuck _me_ in school.”

Samuel interjects, reminding Harry of his presence once again. “Why would he be embarrassed about that? Any man in his right mind would want to fuck you.”

Harry lowers his eyes, retreating further into Draco, who only holds him tighter.

Simi gives him a dispassionate look. “Leave it, Sam.”

“Why?” he says obstinately. “Draco doesn’t own him, much as he wants to.”

Draco tenses behind him, but doesn’t comment. Harry swivels in his lap so he’s sat sideways, where he can look at him. He doesn’t want Samuel’s attention; he wants Draco’s. The last time he sat like this it was just before Draco was inside of him, peacefully reading a book. Then, he’d made a game of withholding his attention. This doesn’t feel like a game.

Harry kisses him artlessly, soft and open. Draco makes a noise of surprise, before twisting his fingers into his hair and tugging. He can feel the last traces of Draco’s lip gloss, sticky, as if it wants to hold their mouths together. Harry kisses down his jaw, his neck. He’s unpracticed, guileless, and completely blind to the rest of the room. But not deaf. Samuel’s voice cuts through the haze.

“I stand corrected,” he says. “Unless you feel like sharing, Draco?”

“Fuck off,” says Draco, still gripping Harry’s hair.

Simi steps in. “Look Sam, either you take a fucking hint, or you leave. Which is it?”

“Alright, alright. Can’t blame a man for trying.”

Harry feels a little relieved, but not that much. He might not be able to use magic to defend himself against a muggle, but Draco would never let him try anything. He’s certain of that now. Still, Draco feels rigid underneath him. It’s probably best to separate them.

He nudges Draco’s cheek with his nose. “Why don’t we go and talk to Tabby?”

“Good idea,” he says.

Harry stands, pulling Draco up with him. He takes another sip of his too-strong drink, and wanders over to Jake and Tabby. Jake is definitely drunk. His shirt buttons are skew whiff, like they’d been undone and then done up again in a hurry. His cheeks are flushed, and his neat hair is sticking up in places. If Harry didn’t know better, he’d say it looks like Tabby has just ravished him in a cupboard.

“Tabitha,” says Draco. “I do believe you have just ravished your man in a cupboard.”

Harry snorts. What’s that saying Molly’s always touting? _Great minds think alike, but fools rarely differ._

“That’s because I have,” she says. “Though it wasn’t a cupboard, there isn’t one big enough.”

Harry’s beginning to think Jake isn’t as boring as he seems.

Draco sighs wistfully. “I’ve missed this shithole. I miss having tea with Mrs Lali upstairs, and fighting with the landlord.”

“That’s the nostalgia talking,” says Jake.

“And the vodka,” adds Tabby.

Draco nods gravely. “And the vodka.”

-

Hours later and they’re both bladdered. They say their goodbyes, Simi trying to dart meaningful glances between Harry and himself, but too bleary-eyed to execute it properly. Draco hails the Knight Bus, and the lurching and squeezing makes him cross his fingers and beg to Salazar that he doesn’t throw up all over Harry. Harry’s head is flopping on his shoulder, and he keeps rubbing his cheek against the silky fabric of his shirt. He strokes carefully over Draco’s eyelid, looking at the glitter now on his fingertip, mumbling something that sounds like _so pretty, so shiny._ Harry’s an adorable drunk. At one point there’s a strange flash of light, but he’s too inundated with the strange sights and sensations of the Knight Bus to pay any attention to it.

He takes Harry back to his, not even considering otherwise. They stumble through the front door, giggling like teenagers afraid of waking their parents up. Draco nips into the en suite, grabbing the two of the cups he keeps there and filling them from the tap. He always forgets he can use magic for a bit, after spending time with his muggle friends. He takes them through to the bedroom and presses one into Harry’s hand.

“You’re always making me drink water,” he slurs.

Draco waggles a finger imperiously. “Hydration is important, Potter.”

“Don’t call me Potter,” he whines, taking a big gulp before setting it aside.

Harry starts shimmying out of his jeans. His tight, tight jeans that hug his arse like a… like a koala, or something. He climbs into Draco’s bed in his t-shirt and pants, placing his glasses on the bedside table. Draco strips off entirely; none of clothes are comfortable enough to sleep in. Except his underwear, he doesn’t have an excuse for those. He just wants as much of his skin on Harry as possible. Only to sleep, mind you. They’re too drunk for anything else.

“Alright, darling,” says Draco, wrapping around him, as if trying to replace those metaphorical koala trousers.

“Draco?” whispers Harry. He sounds like a child at a sleepover, checking if their friend is awake.

“Hm?”

“I’m not tired yet,” he says. “Are you?”

“No. I keep thinking about gouging out Samuel’s eyeballs,” Draco confesses.

Harry giggles again, youthful and relaxed, and turns in his arms to face him. “He did look at me a lot.”

“He was trying to devour you with his eyes; I wanted to throw up just watching.”

Draco wonders if _he’s_ that obvious. Surely he can’t be, otherwise everyone would know already.

“Muggles don’t normally act like that with me,” says Harry. “Just wizards who want me ‘cause I’m Harry Potter.”

“If you think those wizards only want you because you’re famous, you’re kidding yourself.”

Harry frowns, disbelieving, but doesn’t argue. Draco sighs, sobering up a bit.

“You know, I think you might’ve given him the wrong impression,” he says.

Harry’s eyes widen, blurring with guilt. “I didn’t mean to lead him on. I wasn’t trying to flirt, or anything.”

“You didn’t darling, that not’s what I meant,” he says, fussing at Harry’s hair. “I meant when he said I didn’t own you, and you kissed me right after. To everyone else, it looked like you were saying I did own you. That’s why he asked me if I’d ‘share’ you- he thought you belonged to me.”

“Oh,” says Harry, expression unreadable.

“It certainly made an impression,” he says. “But now Simi and everyone else think that, too. I probably should have said something, corrected them, but I liked Samuel thinking you belonged to me. I’m sorry.”

About half the people at that party now think that Harry is _his_ , and as much as that thrills him, he knows it isn’t right. Harry didn’t mean to make a statement like that, he didn’t know any better. But fuck, it was about as obvious as wearing Draco’s collar.

“I don’t mind,” mumbles Harry, hiding his face in his Draco’s chest. “I don’t mind if he thinks that.”

Draco just holds him tighter, letting his lips brush over his scar. Despite claiming he wasn’t tired, Harry falls asleep pretty quickly after that. Draco stays awake long into the night, trying not to raise his hopes too high, and failing miserably. He stares into the dark for hours, breaking his own heart.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short and sweet chapter just to tide you over a bit. Sorry for the long breaks but I've been pretty seriously ill in the middle of my uni deadlines, so needs must.

As usual, Draco wakes up first. He blinks up at the ceiling, wondering how it got to a point where they have a ‘usual’. His head is pounding but he barely feels it, memory flooded with images of last night. For once, he doesn’t have to drag Harry into consciousness.

“Morning,” groans Harry, pink creases on his cheek from where it was pressed into the pillow. 

Draco smiles softly at the sight. “Morning.”

They drag themselves out of bed with hangover potions acting as a powerful incentive. Harry’s eager to get home to his clean clothes and toothbrush, but before he leaves, he grabs Draco’s wrist.

“Are you coming to lunch at the Burrow again?”

“Never fear,” says Draco. “That was a temporary lapse in judgement, never to be repeated.”

Harry looks disappointed for some reason. “Oh. Are you sure?”

“How come?”

“No reason,” says Harry, fiddling with the sleeve of his crumpled jacket. “I just thought it would be nice. Molly and Arthur really like you, you know.”

Is it possible that Harry actually wants him there? Maybe he’s still drunk. However pathologically incapable of denying Harry that he is, he’d rather poke himself in the eye with a cheese fork than be _improper_.

“Well, I wouldn’t want to impose. They wouldn’t know I was coming, and there might not be enough food.”

Harry laughs. “It’s Molly, there’s always enough food.”

“Fine,” he says, caving like a house of cards under Harry’s hopeful gaze. “But you’ll have to check with them first, I refuse to turn up unannounced.”

Harry seems unusually buoyed by his acquiescence, leaving with a spring in his step. _What a sweet little weirdo_ , he thinks to himself. Then again, Draco’s the one who loves him, so what does that make him?

Stepping out of the fireplace and into the Weasley abode, it becomes clear that while Harry alerted Molly and Arthur, the rest of the clan were still in the dark. Scanning his eyes across the shocked faces, he resigns himself to using first names. He can’t call all of them ‘Weasley’.

Ronald’s mouth gapes open, the orange hue of his hair only serving to make him look even more like a goldfish. “Again?” he hisses, turning to his mother. “He’s here _again_?”

Hermione whacks her husband in the arm, but he can’t say she looks pleased to see him either. Polite, and oddly curious, but definitely not pleased. Fortunately, Molly and Arthur look delighted, and Harry gives him a sheepish smile.

“Draco!” effuses Molly, sweeping him into a hug that he’ll ever get used to. “I was so happy when Harry told us you were coming.”

Draco draws his expression into an effortless mask of charm. “Well Molly, after tasting your cooking once, no other food compares.”

He can see Harry mouthing at him over Molly’s shoulder. _Suck up._ If they weren’t in company, Draco might have succumbed to a similar level of childishness and stuck his tongue out at him.

Molly seems genuinely pleased by his flattery, and sits him next to her when they move to the table. Harry’s all the way at the other end of the table with Arthur, and he sends a beseeching look his way. He’s the one who made him come, and now he’s abandoned him to a suspicious looking Percy on his left, and an amused looking George across from him. At least he’s not sat with Ronald. Relieved as he is that he’s kept Draco’s secret, he can still feel the ghost of that punch.

At Arthur’s end of the table, the conversation circles back to the muggle studies centre.

“I think it should be called something positive,” says Granger. “Like ‘The Harmony Centre’ or ‘The Acceptance Facility’.”

“They sound like mental institutions,” Ginerva points out, none too kindly.

Draco has a few choice comments of his own to make, but he’s too far away to join the discussion naturally. Instead, he’s stuck being lectured by Percy about the proper way to format inter-departmental memos. He catches Harry’s eye, and glares. It’s his fault he’s being subjected to this. Harry’s answering grin is unrepentant, and he finds himself forgiving the bastard. You can get away with a lot, with a face like that.

This time, when dinner’s over, he doesn’t leave right away. He’s not willing to waste any time in Harry’s presence, whether he’s surrounded by people who hate him or not. They settle back in the living room, and this time he makes sure they’re sat together. Even just having their thighs pressed together, their shoulders touching, makes something settle inside of him. This close, he can smell the familiar scent of him; the one he looks for whenever he buries his nose in Harry’s hair.

His hand is resting on his leg, and centimetre by centimetre, Harry moves his little finger to brush against Draco’s own. Letting the chatter wash over him, Draco forces himself to stay calm, furiously trying not to pin all his hopes to one little touch.

That evening, he turns up at Pansy’s London flat. He didn’t warn her he was coming, but impropriety means nothing when you grew up with someone. Not when you helped them hex off their teenage spots, held their hair back as they vomited coconut rum, and shared an embarrassing first kiss. Normally, he doesn’t talk to Pansy about matters of the heart. He suspects that she’s known about his Potter-related obsession for longer than he has, but would never disgrace either of them by mentioning it. Usually, he talks to Simi about these things. It was Simi who comforted him through his fist anticlimactic breakup, patiently watching Legally Blonde with him at least seven times.

The problem is, the complications between him and Harry can’t really be explained in muggle terms. He tried, but there’s no number of vague allusions that can replace an entire war.

“Pansy,” he announces, as she opens the front door to let him stride into the living room. “I’ve been a fool of the worst kind.”

“Tell me something new,” she says.

“I’ve been shagging Harry Potter.”

The door slams behind her. “Well,” she says, her face growing pale. “That is new.”

“Indeed,” he says, throwing his jacket over the arm of the sofa before throwing himself dramatically onto the cushions.

“I’m not sure why you’re so put out about it, then. Isn’t this your scrawny, speccy dream come true?” she wonders.

She comes to stand over him, folding her arms. Her silky black hair falls over her heavily-lined eyes, her lips a suggestive shade of red.

“Are you going out, Pansy? It’s Sunday night,” says Draco, looking quizzically at his oldest friend.

“As a matter of fact, I am. Not all of us spend our days bent over steaming cauldrons and reading books in our armchairs like a twenty-seven-year-old pensioner.”

“That’s not all I do,” says Draco petulantly. “Now I fuck Harry Potter as well.”

She motions for Draco to make space for her on the sofa, sitting down and placing his head on her lap. She runs her fingers through his hair, and it’s like they’re fifteen again, like nothing can touch them.

“Does he know how you feel?” asks Pansy, voice uncharacteristically gentle.

He hadn’t been sure that Pansy knew how he felt until that moment, but perhaps he really is that obvious.

“I don’t know,” he says. “Sometimes I think he must do. Other times he’s so unbelievably dense I think a herd of Erumpents could stampede right past him and he wouldn’t notice a thing.”

Pansy shakes her head. “If he hurts you, I’ll kill him. I don’t care that he’s Harry Potter, I’ll do it anyway. I can go on the run to Greece after, I’ve always wanted to go.”

Draco laughs, grateful and affectionate. “Even Snakeface Supreme couldn’t kill Harry Potter, Pansy.”

“Well You-Know-Who didn’t have shit on me,” she says. “Do you remember when Daphne Greengrass spilled punch down my dress at the Yule ball, just because I called her a fugly slag?”

Draco shudders, remembering the ensuing chaos, and the true terror of teenage girls.

“You’re such a bitch,” he says, sighing into the soothing motions of her hands in his hair.

“And you’re a knob,” she sniffs.

Draco smiles. That’s always been their way of saying ‘I love you’. He’s no closer to working out what to do about Harry, but he feels better anyway. Pansy’s stroking his hair, and nothing can touch them.


End file.
